Pennies for the Ferryman - 01

by Jim Bernheimer

  Eva confirmed what little I knew about how ghosts work, namely that most people die and their spirits pass on to wherever spirits go, but ghosts, for some reason, are stuck. She called them the ‘almost departed’ which seemed witty when she said it. My suspicion that some ghosts were more powerful than others was also proven true.

  My new lady friend couldn’t explain why that was, although she did know that ghosts didn’t particularly care for electricity, as it made them quite uncomfortable, ranging from a mild irritation, to excruciating pain, depending upon the particular ghost.

  Apparently, this meant that I needed to build a house in this valley, one with an electric fence. Then I could have my very own fortress of solitude. Now, all I needed was the cash – an all too common occurrence in my life.

  What Darren Porter’s ghosts called a focus, she called an anchor, but no, she didn’t know how the anchor worked, but did know that if the anchor were destroyed, or placed in the ghost’s tomb, that was usually sufficient to release the ‘almost departed’ to wherever they went next.

  She then explained that, in her experience, other ghosts stayed behind because they had some task that needed doing – a family member to protect, a murderer to haunt, or something mundane like a task that in life seemed important, but was never done. When I asked which kind of ghost she was, she smiled and said that she had no anchor that she knew of.

  I noted her avoidance of the question and pressed on, “So, if I were to ask you for your best guess, what would you say that the Ghosts in Gettysburg are doing? They are collecting energy, but for what purpose?”

  Her expression darkened, “There’s a third type of ghost, Mister Ferryman Ross, one you’d do well to avoid,”she said earnestly. “The almost departed try to give them a wide berth, and thankfully, there are precious few of them.”

  “What’s wrong with them?” I asked.

  “They very much don’t want to be dead, and they are very, very afraid of what happens next, when we move on to whatever happens after we stop being ghosts,” she said, “so they try to turn things back.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “They possess the living. The gathered energy allows them to stay in control,” she explained, making a face like the notion of that was somehow indecent.

  I suppose that was when I fully awake , the suspicious, cynical bastard in me would try to figure out why a pretty, almost naked girl was perched on my bed, having a lengthy conversation about our respective lives, or in her case, her life after death.

  “Okay Eva, I appreciate the warning, but what the hell do you want?”

  “Mister Ross, even in your day, it’s not proper to use such language in front of a lady,” she chided, resuming her peaceful stance at the foot of the bed. “Still, I suppose your overly cautious attitude is a product of your recent encounter and you would be correct in assuming that not all ghosts have your best interests at heart. They do not. I assure you that I am no Skinwalker. If I’d been one, I would have taken you before you ever woke up. I am merely a ghost, one of the almost departed.”

  Maybe it was the fact that she was brighter than any other ghost I’d seen, I wasn’t buying the “merely a ghost” part.

  “As to how I found you, while I don’t have much to do with the nearly departed from the War Between the States, even I noticed a number of them scouting around the edge of the barrier. I questioned them from my side and they asked if I’d seen any strange men coming in to the valley. They’d tracked you two into Wilkes-Barre, but then couldn’t get past the barrier. I told them that I hadn’t seen anything amiss, and they went elsewhere. You’re rather easy to find, if you know what to look for,” she said.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “The miserable Private at the barrier mentioned the Fletcher family. Well, I know all of the families in this valley, at least those families which have been here for a generation or more, so visiting the three houses where Fletchers reside was a fairly simple task; all I had to do then was look for a living man who shines like a ghost. Your typical, mundane ghost doesn’t pay much attention to the world of the living, unless, of course, their focus is a task that involves the living, such as haunting their murderer,” she began. “We can see the living, of course, but they are usually just something moving in the background to us. You, however, are quite singular – you show up, quite vividly, I might add, in both worlds.”

  “I shine?” I asked.

  “Not overly much,” she replied. “I can’t detect you outside of this house, but once I entered this room, it was as easy to see as a candle on a nightstand.”

  “You seem to have gone to a lot of trouble to find me,” I growled.

  “Oh, not as much trouble as General Reynolds--he has dozens of men scouring the area for you.”

  “As to what I want, I happen to be in need of the services of a ferryman,” she said, tugging at the ends of the ghost blanket.

  There was a moment of panic just then, thinking that she was going to take the blanket off. As I’ve said before, Brother Silas’ efforts to the contrary, I’m not much in the morals department – I don’t hit on minors, I don’t date two women at once, you know -- the usual things. I made up another rule on the spot – I don’t hit on dead women, even if the ghost in question is still hot more than a century after her death. My sudden moral development was wasted, however. Eva shifted the blanket around so she could twist the ends into a knot of some variety before standing up again.

  “You want help passing over?” I asked.

  She smiled.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I still have much work to do in this valley, but there are a number of children who died in the flood of 1901 and the flood of 1948 – their bodies were never recovered, like mine, disappearing into the river and presumably on out into the sea.”

  “And you want me to help them,” I stated.

  “Yes,” she said with an amused look on her face.

  “If that’s the case, do I get my two coins a head?” I asked.

  “I should think that regaining some of the hearing in your injured ear should be worth at least two silver coins to you,” she replied, walking towards the door.

  She was smooth and confident – she expected me to follow – she wasn’t going to argue with me, and I was going to be a good little soldier and obey her.

  The only problem, she was right.

  I won’t bore you with the blow-by-blow details of what happened next – just another episode of Mike Ross, the go-to guy for ghosts who can’t get it together to pass on. With a little manual labor and a shovel, I poked a temporary hole in the barrier protecting the valley.

  If there was some modicum of “payoff” in all this, it had to be watching a motley collection of ghost children excitedly jumping around Eva and hugging each other. It was probably the kind of thing Darren would have done with this power. Eva was having a difficult time maintaining control of her emotions, as the youngsters began to wink out of existence. Hopefully, I’d just stockpiled a boatload of good karma. Tired, dirty, and exhausted, I used the shovel to plug the barrier and then said my goodbye to Eva. She looked ready for a good cry.

  It took an hour to trudge back to where Rusty and I were staying. No one asked where I’d been and why I needed a shovel. I was just cousin Rusty’s creepy friend and I doubted that I would be invited back anytime soon. I may have worn out Rusty’s welcome as well. We had coffee and sticky buns and an hour later, we were back on the road, looking for the signs for the exit that would take us to I-476.

  “Sleep well, Mike?” Rusty asked as he turned his radio on, looking for a country station.

  “Not really,” I said, hoping that he wouldn’t ask.

  Even with Rusty, who’d seen me battle Colonel Vincent’s troops, hand to ghostly hand, it would just take too long to explain.

  There were lots of questions, a few incomplete answers, and more debt than cash – it sounded like the story of my life.

  Episode
8: No Reason to Panic

  Everyone makes New Year’s resolutions. Some people want to lose weight or stop smoking; some might want to get into, or out of, a meaningful relationship. The promises we make to ourselves were always the easiest to go back on. For my part, I was in Iraq on New Year’s Day 2006 and my resolution was to make it through to 2007 with all my original parts intact.

  Yeah, that went so well didn’t it?

  Did anything really changed? It seemed that I was in another war, one where I didn’t understand the end objective, nor who the enemy was, which was rather much like Iraq, just without the heat, the sand and the interesting smells. Oh, and in Iraq, there was lots and lots of backup too.

  Fast forward one year later and I’ve discovered that ghosts really exist. Some of them have banded together with an agenda; one that didn’t involve people that could see and touch them. Outside of an elderly blind preacher, I was the only one equipped for this. The only saving grace was that the bad guys were looking for a guy named Michael Ross, not David Michael Ross, Junior. For once, having my old man’s name was doing something useful, beyond the usual problems with my credit history.

  I was supposedly a major player in a struggle that no one really saw fit to explain to me. I’d kill my enemies except for one minor problem – they’re already dead. To make matters worse, my backup consisted of a couple of well meaning preachers, my weekly poker group, and a pair of ghosts who were more interested in exploring each other than any mundane problems that I might have.

  Wherever “the enemy” was, I’m sure they were trembling in fright.

  Have I mentioned that I was broke again? Unlike the government, I couldn’t go to Congress, pass an emergency spending bill and raise the national debt to finance my war.

  On a positive note, I found out that I’m probably distantly related to Edgar Allan Poe and that he and at least his brother possessed this same crazy power and fought the good fight against the paranormal.

  The downside to that is that both Poe brothers apparently died in their private little war, William Henry in his mid-twenties. Edgar was depicted as a tortured soul and he couldn’t hold a job or a steady relationship – other than his marriage to his cousin.

  None of that fit into my five year plan. Besides, most of my cousins weren’t much to look at – except for maybe Holly, but she’s married already and I’m not that desperate.

  Still all this did have me thinking about dear old dad. Did he have this power as well? Is that why he just up and left one day, or was he just the family-deserting bastard I’d always believed he was? Darren Porter was a ghost enthusiast. I was living proof that some people weren’t too thrilled about the sudden ability to see “the other side”. He’s not-so living proof of being careful what you wished for.

  For 2007, I didn’t want to be committed to something that clearly might be outside of my control. This year called for flexibility above all else. I’d regained a bit of hearing in my bad ear, and my eyesight was getting better in my injured eye. With some luck, I’d be behind the wheel again before summer began. So with that in mind, my New Year’s resolution was simply to be flexible and adapt to whatever was coming my way.

  I’d just finished sending off an email to my pseudo-girlfriend, Candace, when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  I picked up the receiver hoping that it might just be the attractive deputy from Roanoke.

  “Ross. Bryan Wycheck here.”

  Damn, wrong cop! He definitely wasn’t my type – he probably looked terrible in a little black dress too.

  “What can I do for you detective? Have they finalized the court date?”

  “It’s cancelled. It gives me great pleasure to say that this will be our last conversation.”

  There was nothing like a condescending prick with a badge. “Why’d they cancel it?”

  “Don’t you know these things already, psychic boy?”

  “Blow me – I see ghosts, I don’t predict the future.”

  Since he wasn’t being nice, I saw no need to humor him. Plus, with this being our last conversation, I figured I shouldn’t spare his feelings any.

  “In that case, watch the TV or pickup a paper, if you can read, you worthless piece of trailer trash,” Wycheck growled.

  “Aw did I upset you Officer? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize your ego was so fragile.”

  “You got a real smart mouth on you, Ross. One of these days it’s going to get you into a lot of trouble, punk. Of course, since you believe in ghosts, you might want to watch out for old Charlie Snowden,” Wycheck said, going silent all of the sudden.

  Obviously, he didn’t know me that well. I didn’t have to wait for one of these days; my mouth got me into trouble all the time.

  “He’s dead?”

  “And here I thought you weren’t all that quick. Just goes to show…”

  I ignored him. “How’d it happen?”

  “Some upstanding ordinary decent criminal, a kid who reminds me a bit of you in fact, rammed a shiv into Charlie’s chest last night in jail. Like I said, nothing to worry about, unless you think Snowden’s ghost can actually hurt you.”

  Amidst the bastard’s cackling laughter, the receiver went dead.

  Great! I could add someone else to the list of persons I’d need to look over my shoulder for. I called “Grandma” Meg, but she already knew. Kevin and Elsbeth, my somewhat friendly ghosts were off on a date to watch Kevin’s boy play basketball. Meg was more than a bit worried. I told her that I’d meet up with Brother Silas and get her house blessed again as soon as he could.

  It was still weeks before Groundhog Day, but two days later I did my best Punxsutawney Phil impression and ventured out of the house for the start of the winter session at Montgomery College. Fortunately, I was only taking a couple of general courses this time around, Sociology in the mornings and History in the afternoon to fulfill the general requirements of my degree. Though, I was a bit more interested in History 201 – Colonial to 1865 then I was six months ago.

  I suppose if people could see the sword I held in my hand, it’d be a strange sight, but one of the nice things about my sword, formerly Colonel Strong Vincent’s, was that no one but a ghost could see it, so it was the ultimate concealed weapon. Of course the most I could do with it if I fought with a living person would be giving them a cold chill up their spine.

  I was comforted by the thought that at least Charlie Snowden would be difficult to miss. The man was an offensive lineman in college days about six foot five and beefy, but I was willing to bet that a face full of the iron filings from my jacket pocket would cause him a whole world of pain.

  Ever have your eyes play tricks on you? That’s what it was like going to the bus stop. I half expected Snowden to leap out at me at any second. Elsbeth and Kevin can do this little trick where they hide in a wall and just barely peek out enough to see what’s coming before they pop out. They think it’s funny--I think it’s creepy.

  I knew what ghosts were capable of, the big question was, if Charlie was one and if so, how much did he know about what ghosts could do?

  Looking out the window of the bus as it pulled away, I thought I saw someone who looked like him across the street. That’s the problem with paranoia, the more you think about it, the worse it gets. Guys in my company in Iraq called it “shifty eyes”. You’d scan a crowd of dozens of people, hoping to catch a glimpse of the one that’s really going to try and kill you.

  Getting off the bus, I headed into the main building and looked for my class. The irony was it was Psychology and I was feeling like a psycho. Oh well, at least I could still laugh at myself. I concentrated on “normal” things like the syllabus and the professor’s expectations. That allowed me to finally relax.

  After class let out, I was sitting in the cafeteria, eating some lunch and idly gazing at my history book. A decidedly female voice interrupted me, “Mind if I join you?”

  The voice belonged to Jenny Goodman. She stood holding a t
ray, looking at me pointedly. Given our history together, this was an interesting development. “I don’t see why not. How’re you?”

  “I’m doing okay. I really needed the time off. How about you? Did you have a good break?” She sat down and started nibbling on a chef’s salad.

  “I got a call from your uncle the other day. He was as pleasant as ever.” I tossed that out to see how she’d react. Both her aunt and uncle were against the idea that Jenny spends any time with me.

  Jenny made a sour face and rolled her eyes. “I heard the other end of that conversation. He doesn’t like you that much. You get on his nerves.”

  “Really? It’s a gift. What can I say?”

  “Pretty strange about that Snowden guy getting killed in jail. You’re not worried about his ghost coming after you, are you?” Jenny asked.

  “It’s on my list, but it’s not on the top of it though.”

  “What is?” Jenny seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Where to start?” I rolled up the sleeve of the sweater I was wearing, revealing the scar where Rusty Fletcher patched up my arm. “I ran into Colonel Strong Vincent again. He jammed a poker into my arm.” The scar was easier to explain than distant links to a ghost-battling Edgar Allan Poe and things likely more powerful than Vincent.

  Her eyes bugged out and she swallowed hard. “That’s awful! What happened? You didn’t go back to Gettysburg did you?”

  “I’m really not in the mood, but the short story is Colonel Vincent was holding Darren’s girlfriend hostage at a cottage in Pennsylvania. I rescued her and drove him off.”