by Jory Strong
“Did the police charge anyone with his murder?” Bryn asked.
Temperance’s eyebrows drew together. “Is it important?”
“It could be. Some ghosts linger because of a thirst for vengeance or justice. Showing them a newspaper clipping about their killer being arrested, convicted or dying is sometimes all it takes to get them to leave.”
“Way cool!” Sheri said. “That’s like a trick of the ghost busting trade, right?”
Atticus chuckled at Bryn’s side. She glanced at him and they exchanged a smile. “Do you feel it?” she asked.
“Yes,” Atticus said. Not only could he feel the ghost presence, but it was growing stronger by the moment.
“What does the ghost do?” Bryn asked Temperance. “How does he manifest?”
“Watch,” Temperance said. She left her spot near the cash register and began winding her way through racks of clothing.
Atticus was a bit chagrined to see copies of some his most comfortable suits labeled vintage. Cast off as out-of-style garments.
Nothing happened until Temperance drew near a back wall covered in sun-faded and water-stained paneling. Her hair began lifting and fluttering away from her face. Clothing flapped, gently at first, then more violently as the circular racks the items were hanging from rocked.
The transparent figure of a man formed, wispy gray with hints of color. Similar in appearance to Albert Einstein, Atticus thought, but really nothing at all like the great man, even on that day in 1955 when he finally succumbed to illness.
“Is this good enough?” Temperance called, fear edging into her voice.
“Yes,” Bryn said.
Temperance hurried back to the front of the store. The clothing and racks become motionless. The bookman faded but retained enough of an outline to remain visible.
“Whoa,” Sheri said. “Totally radical and dangerous.” A pick bubble emerged from her mouth and popped as if to emphasize the point.
“I assume it gets worse if you don’t get out of that space,” Bryn said.
“Way worse.” Temperance took Bryn’s hand between her gloved ones. “Please say you can help. It wasn’t this bad with the other tenants. It wasn’t this bad for me either until a week ago. Before then I could hardly see him even though I knew the place was haunted.”
“What happened a week ago?” Bryn asked.
“This lady came into the store. I could tell she wasn’t interested in the clothes. I mean, hello, she walked right by the stuff that would be perfect for her. Then whenever she caught me looking she’d pull out whatever was on the rack closest to her. As soon as she got near the back wall, this started. And it’s only gotten worse. If it doesn’t stop Gramps is going to shut this place down. He said he might even raze the building. He’s scared of losing everything in a lawsuit.”
Atticus’ curiosity was stirred. “It only happens near that one section of paneled wall?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where the bookman was when he died?”
Temperance pointed at the corner across from where she’d set up her cash register. “He had a little cubicle there so he could do whatever he did but be close to the front door.”
“Has your grandfather done any remodeling since the bookman was a tenant?” Bryn asked and pride filled Atticus that she’d made the same mental leap as he had.
“Nope. Gramps likes to say, ‘What you see is what you get.’”
“Totally cool,” Sheri said. “You think the ghost is protecting hidden treasure, don’t you?”
Atticus’ assessment of Sheri rose. “I believe it’s quite possible,” he said. “Though given the former tenant’s occupation, it seems likely the treasure is a rare and valuable book.”
His eyes met Bryn’s and his heart rate doubled at the warm regard he saw in them. Her smiled dazzled him and made him want to pick her up and carry her back to bed.
“Do you think the woman who came to my shop is the one who murdered the bookman?” Temperance asked. “Maybe she panicked and ran before getting what she’d come for, or else she couldn’t find it and only just now got up the nerve to come back.”
“Sounds possible,” Bryn said. “How was the bookman killed?”
“Some kind of an explosion.” Temperance’s lips pursed and her eyebrows drew together. “I just remembered something. Right after it happened I heard Grams say she didn’t believe it was murder. She thought maybe he’d accidentally blown himself up. He was an arsonist.”
“An arsonist?” Atticus and Bryn said at the same time with equal measures of doubt.
Sheri said, “Someone that likes to start fires?”
“No, that’s not the right word,” Temperance said. “How about anarchist? No. Archaist? Alchemist! That’s what Grams called him. He was like one of those guys from the Middle Ages who was looking for a way to turn metal into gold. Only Gramps called him something else. Rastafarian. Rosicrucian! That’s it! Only not the Christian kind, but the kind that’s like a secret society studying mysterious Egyptian texts.”
Sheri hopped up and down. “Maybe he has treasure hidden after all, something stolen from some pharaoh’s tomb.” She clutched Bryn’s arm and continued to jump around. “How do we get rid of the bookman’s ghost?”
The question rang in the air like a death knell, bringing with it a hot desert wind and the smell of frankincense. The bookman’s form began solidifying as clothing whipped on the racks. He screamed and his arms came up to shield his face.
Bryn’s hand found Atticus’ though she didn’t utter a peep when a mummy stepped through a side wall, tattered, dirty strips of cloth hanging from outstretched arms.
Sheri’s shrieks joined the bookman’s, as did Temperance’s. The ghost’s frantic attempt to escape seemed limited to a corner of the back wall, as if he was indeed tethered to a treasure worth lingering in order to guard.
“Do you have a name for this manifestation?” Bryn asked, “Besides A Scary Mummy?”
Atticus chuckled as he studied what was in all likelihood the middle of his five brothers. “I believe this is Seker, an Egyptian god.”
It was a stretch, and Atticus couldn’t be absolutely certain his brother was familiar with ancient Egyptian culture. It was quite possible the mummy came from a comic book or horror film. But he could hardly tell Bryn that.
Atticus breathed a sigh of relief when Sheri and Temperance stopped their shrieking and the desert wind serving as atmosphere for his brother’s show drowned out the worst of the bookman’s screams and pleading.
Behind the ghost the wood paneling appeared to melt and blacken until it resembled a carved sarcophagus left standing.
“No! No!” the bookseller said as the mummy reached for him.
Atticus waited with baited breath when the cloth-shrouded figure of his brother paused, stood like an actor waiting to deliver his final lines.
Desert winds died down. A deep, from-the-grave voice, intoned, “Leave. Leave now! I command you. The information you seek awaits.”
The mummy stepped forward, the bookman stepped backward. Their movements repeated until both of them disappeared into the black pit of the tomb.
“Totally awesome,” Sheri said.
Temperance hugged herself, rubbing white-gloved hands over goose-pimpled flesh. “Freaky.”
But the show was not yet done.
Black ash fell in fine dust as the sarcophagus disintegrated leaving brick wall and a carved-out hiding place exposed.
“Oh my god,” Sheri squealed, rushing forward with Temperance.
Atticus met Bryn’s eyes. “Shall we?”
Her laugh made him smile.
“Might as well,” she said, “though I’ll admit, I’m still blown away by what I just saw.”
The requisite Death tarot card lay on top of a leather-bound book. Atticus picked the card up with a sigh. It belonged in his collection, of course.
Sheri lifted the book and Temperance gave a little squeal when a handful of gold buttons w
ere revealed.
“Whoa!” Sheri said. “Is it real?”
Temperance collected the buttons and looked at Atticus. “What do you think?”
He took one from her hand. “Feels real. An appraiser could give you an idea of carat and value.”
Sheri opened the book. “Cool. Check out the strange symbols.”
“It looks like a diary,” Bryn said. “Maybe a record of the bookman’s experiments and observations.”
“Oh wow,” Temperance said. “Maybe these buttons started out as ordinary metal buttons and he figured out a way to turn them into gold.”
Bryn shook her head. “That is definitely not my line of work.”
Temperance glanced up. “You’re awesome. What do I owe you? I know Sheri told me your rates over the phone but you’ve done a lot more than just get rid of the ghost. If I can sell this gold and maybe the book too…I mean, I don’t want to blow myself up or anything and if there are others like the woman who came to the shop…” She sighed and looked around her at the vintage clothing. “I could expand, go to estate sales and buy even better stock, maybe open a second store in a year…or even chip in so the band can go on tour.”
Sheri let out a whoop of joy.
Bryn reached over to run her finger along the edge of the Death card in Atticus’ hand. “This is payment enough. You don’t owe me anything. But honestly, I think Atticus deserves the credit for what happened here today with the ghost.”
His heart threatened to swell past the ability of his chest to contain it with her acknowledgment and the sense of togetherness that swamped him. He leaned in and brushed a kiss against her lips. “If we hadn’t met this wouldn’t have happened to either of us. Of that I am one hundred percent sure.”
“Ready to go?” Bryn asked, her eyes promising an intimacy his cock responded to immediately.
Atticus thought briefly of his brother’s parting words. Though they’d been directed at the bookman’s retreating ghost, he suspected the message, The information you seek awaits, was meant for him.
“Yes,” he said. Dealing with Bryn’s unwanted suitor could wait.
They said goodbye and left the shop. As they approached the car, movement at the corner of his eye made Atticus turn his head. A flash of dirty white disappeared around the corner of a building. Surely not. His brother wouldn’t dare to hang out on the streets as Seker while waiting to deliver Mark’s address.
Still, misgiving filled Atticus as a second thought came on the heels of the first. What if they followed him back to Bryn’s place?
They’d respected his privacy when it came to the marital bed—so far—he thought. But an excuse to pop in regarding a matter he himself had asked their assistance with… Atticus shuddered. It might test the limits of their restraint too much.
Sheri came barreling out of the shop. “Hold on. Can we, like, do coffee together first? Just for a few minutes? Please? There’s a place right around the corner.”
Atticus seized on the opportunity. He squeezed Bryn’s hand. “Something just occurred to me. Have coffee with her while I run a quick errand, all right?” He followed up with a kiss. “We can meet back at the car.”
“Okay,” Bryn said, curious about his sudden errand though she wouldn’t put it past him to be thinking of some romantic gesture he’d like perform. She turned toward Sheri. “Lead on.”
The coffee shop was empty of customers except for two rollerbladers and a man hunched intently over his laptop. “My treat,” Sheri said after Bryn ordered a mocha.
They took their drinks to a window table. Bryn was content to sit and appreciate the hit of chocolate.
The mummy hadn’t scared her, not really. But as a staple of horror images, it’d made her heart race and given her an adrenaline rush. And the voice… A cold shiver slid down her spine. It wasn’t really like Atticus’ and yet it had reminded her of Charon the Coachman’s voice and his voice had sounded like Atticus.
Maybe it wasn’t so much the voice, but the fact that both Seker and Charon had spoken. The thought made her feel better.
Bryn wondered again if Atticus’ beliefs were giving rise to the manifestations of Death, then smiled when it occurred to her that maybe he was right in insisting it was the two of them that did it. What if her ability to see ghosts combined with his belief in a death entity were the reason everything was so different, including how little she had to do to get ghosts to move on.
Still, it didn’t explain the tarot cards. Atticus thought it was spectral amusement or a greeting from “one person in the business to another”. But why now? And who were they meant for? Her? Him? Both of them?
She smiled as an idea came to her. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it earlier. Then again, between the sex and the ghosts, she had been pretty busy. It’d be interesting to see what Ava made of the cards. She didn’t “do” tarot cards, as she often had to point out to people who wandered into her tiny occult store looking for a reading, but she was a true psychic.
Bryn forced her mind away from thoughts of Death and the cards. She focused her attention on Sheri who was nervously spinning her coffee cup between her hands. “What’s up?”
Sheri’s spine stiffened and her chin lifted. “Look, I know I let you down back there with all the screaming. Next to Freddie Kruger and Jason, that mummy was so has been. He just kind of caught me by surprise. I mean, I was expecting the ghost. But after the black coach and Led Zeppelin tunes at Stoner’s…
“What I’m saying is I hope you won’t write me off as a total loser because I kind of lost it when the mummy first showed up. If you’ll just give me another chance I know we could make a great team. I grew up in this town. There are a lot of ghosts here. Not that I ever paid attention before, but I think I could reel in some more clients for you if you’ll let me keep working for you. I swear I—”
Bryn held up her hand to halt the flow of words. She was touched by Sheri’s heartfelt plea. “You did great back there, Sheri. I’ll call Marietta and tell her I’d like for you to come back next week.”
Sheri’s Yes! was accompanied by upraised fists and wildly jangling bracelets. “You won’t be sorry, Bryn. I swear.”
Bryn laughed. Sheri’s enthusiasm made her feel lighthearted despite the fact she couldn’t afford an assistant. Except for the tarot cards, she hadn’t gotten paid anything for her last three ghost calls, though in all fairness Bryn knew she couldn’t claim any credit for sending those ghosts on their way.
For the time being she’d just have to accept Marietta’s gratitude when it came to Sheri’s salary. But if Sheri really could scare up some clients…
“Uh oh,” Sheri said. “Red alert. Here comes lover boy.”
Bryn stiffened and turned in her seat in time to see Mark push through the coffee shop door. Anger and embarrassment heated her face.
But instead of coming over to the table he went to the counter and ordered a drink. His back remained to them until his coffee was in hand. When he turned he appeared to do a double take, as though he hadn’t known she and Sheri were in the shop.
Some of the tension left Bryn. Uncertainty wormed its way in though she wasn’t positive he hadn’t followed her, just as he’d apparently done when she took Atticus to Caroline’s estate. Bryn looked down at her cup and hoped he’d just go away.
He didn’t.
“Can we talk, Bryn? Alone?”
She glanced up to find him standing next to their table, face remorseful. Part of her wanted to bring up the note, to express the hurt and anger she felt, but she knew it wouldn’t make her feel better and a small fear argued that she should not escalate things with him. “No, Mark. I said everything I had to say to you last night.”
Had it only been last night? She’d been caught in a whirlwind since running from a knife-wielding Billy Haddon and colliding with Atticus’ James Bond car.
Mark’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. “He’s not right for you, Bryn. He’ll never appreciate you the way I will.
I—”
“Mark—”
“Please, Bryn. Mom and I had a long talk today. She wants you to come to dinner.”
Bryn’s hand tightened on her coffee cup in growing frustration and anger. “Mark, I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to let your mother go. And if she won’t move on then you need to.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“I do mean it. Your mother had her life. Now you deserve yours. Let her go.”
“I can’t,” he said and left the shop.
“Whoa,” Sheri said. “That was intense.”
Bryn grimaced and offered the same apology she’d given Atticus. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”
“Hey, no problem. So am I reading it right? Lover boy’s mother is a ghost?”
“Yes.”
Sheri pulled a pink square of gum from her pocket and unwrapped it. “Radical. I think I’ve got a feel for this ghost business. You know yesterday when he called, remember how I said I’d told him get a life? I must have been picking up on something, getting a vibe over the phone.”
* * * * *
Atticus surveyed the buildings around him. He’d walked several blocks, expecting one of his brothers to make an appearance, but to no avail. Perhaps he’d been mistaken and the mummy’s message hadn’t been meant for him after all.
Just as well. The idea of spending the evening and night in bed with Bryn held far more appeal than dealing with her unwanted suitor.
He turned, intent on retracing his steps and returning to the car. Thoughts of his brothers were quickly replaced by erotic fantasies.
Not that he needed inspiration, of course, or help when it came to determining what Bryn might enjoy, but if he could manage it, he’d skim a few more scenes in the books on her nightstand.
A chuckle escaped. His pace increased, lightheartedness put a spring in his step.
Atticus would have walked past the nondescript building without giving it a single glance if a delivery truck driver hadn’t stepped away from the back of his vehicle and collided with him, scattering packages on the sidewalk. Impulsively Atticus picked up the box closest to him. Delighted surprise made him laugh when he saw the label. Mabel’s Erotics, Toys for Adult Fun and Games.