Gil's All Fright Diner

by A. Lee Martinez

  Earl's grin faded away. He couldn't remember anything Hector had said about the rest of it. He flipped through his notes. They only told him how to use them. He'd neglected to write down all of Hector's arcane terminology.

  Bravely, he pressed on.

  "Well, this, uh, dried raven's eye is used to call the, uh, nature spirits. Specifically the great bird fathers so that they might, uh, chase away the grave fiends."

  "Grave fiends?"

  "Yeah." He coughed to cover an awkward pause while he gathered his thoughts. "They're these nasty things that, uh, might screw things up if we're not careful. Sort'a like gremlins that haunt graveyards."

  "I've never seen any."

  "You wouldn't. They're invisible."

  "So am I."

  "Yeah, but they're invisible in a different way. They're all around. Trust me."

  "If you say so."

  He snatched up something else to distract her. "This belladonna is called the enchanter's herb. It just makes magic easier when you burn it."

  "Really? Why?"

  "It's kind'a complicated." He checked his watch. "I better get this set up. No point waiting until the last minute."

  He started with the runes Hector had described over the phone. He hoped they were done right. Arcane symbols weren't standardized like the alphabet. No one really understood how they worked. They only knew that if you drew a triangle in a circle in a square in just the right way, you could get something unnatural to happen.

  After he finished the last rune around Cathy's grave, they all shimmered with soft red light.

  "That means they're ready," he explained.

  The glow faded, but the runes started moving. Not in an obvious way—it was more like he could sense them stirring, shifting when not being watched. And when he turned back to look at them again, they did indeed look different. Or maybe not.

  Next he placed the blue candles between the runes to surround the grave. He lit each and mumbled a quick incantation scribbled on his notepad. When the flame burned bright red, he poured the circle of salt and muttered a second, longer incantation. He knew he'd done it right when the wind didn't blow the salt away. The setup was complete. The circle could only be broken by an act of will.

  He stood back and studied his work. A magic circle worthy of Merlin himself. Or maybe Merlin's amateur, penniless half-brother. But looks weren't important as long as it did the trick.

  They still had forty-five minutes before the casting. Cathy and Earl killed the time by lying on their backs and staring at the stars.

  She pointed. "That one right there is my favorite. I don't know why. It's not the brightest or the biggest, but there's just something about it."

  "It's nice," Earl agreed.

  "Sometimes I make up my own constellations. Like over there, that's the Goose. And just below that is the Happy Face. And over there is the Big Dipper."

  "There's already a Big Dipper."

  "I didn't say I was very good at it."

  They chuckled, sliding closer. She turned on her side and laid a hand on his chest. He stroked her hair. The ectoplasmic strands slipped through his fingers, light as gossamer. He suddenly realized how mortal he was.

  Vampires liked to think of themselves as eternal. But, in the end, their lives were measured in moments. Just like the living. Certainly there were a lot more moments, but quantity was highly overrated. He would have traded the last ninety-plus years of his life to make this particular moment last just a little longer. But time waited for no one, mortal or immortal. He tried not to think about it, to just enjoy it while it lasted.

  "Earl?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Can vampires bite ghosts?"

  "Sure. I've never done it myself, but I hear it's a lot like suckin' down Jell-O."

  "What else can vampires and ghosts do?"

  "Well, ectoplasm is pretty much the same as flesh and blood for the undead."

  "How much like it?"

  "Just like it. In all the important ways."

  "All the important ways?"

  "Yeah, sure. Why?"

  She took his hand and guided it to her waist.

  He was caught completely by surprise. She was so pretty and so wonderful, he couldn't imagine her wasting her time with him. But she didn't have much choice really. The romantic opportunities of a graveyard guardian were limited, at best.

  She glided over him. He lost his train of thought in her smoldering eyes. She kissed him. He instinctively fumbled for her bra only to discover she wasn't wearing one. Or any clothes at all, for that matter. His hands ran down her back. Her ectoplasmic skin was so smooth and soft. He couldn't imagine anything more perfect than the spot on the small of her back where his fingers came to rest.

  She undid his overalls.

  He imagined what he might look like to the casual observer. A naked man writhing and rolling in the dirt with his phantom lover. Her hair brushed his neck as she kissed his chest, and he found he didn't care.

  A cynical little voice whispered, "It's not you. She'd like anyone after all these years alone." But it was a very small voice, easy enough to push away in the moment.

  Another moment that lasted not nearly long enough.

  Naked, Earl lay in the dirt and watched Cathy breathe.

  Ghosts weren't supposed to breathe, but she did anyway. She snuggled closer, and he could feel the faint beat of her heart. It was only an incredible simulation, but he marveled at how much humanity she still had after all these years of being dead. While he'd done his best to avoid specters, he'd met more than enough to realize how rare that was.

  She caught him staring. "What?"

  "Nuthin'."

  "What are you thinking?"

  "Nuthin'."

  Smiling, she kissed him. "That was nice. Thank you."

  He shifted, trying to work some pointed pebbles under his spine to a less bothersome position without actually getting up.

  "Just nice?"

  Another bad thing about being a vampire was the expectations created by an irresponsible media. When it came to making love, there were higher standards for the undead. Standards he fell well short of.

  "Very nice," she replied. "You were great."

  He blushed for the first time in two decades.

  "Of course, it has been a while," Cathy added. "I'm pretty damn easy."

  They laughed.

  "What time is it?"

  Earl checked his watch. "Eight-fifteen."

  "We better get ready then."

  "Yeah. We better."

  Neither moved. Minutes passed in contented silence.

  Finally, with five minutes until casting, Cathy slid away from him. She stood. Spectral clothing materialized on her body again. Earl had to get dressed the old-fashioned way.

  "So am I supposed to stand in the circle?" she asked.

  "You don't got to do anything, actually. Your grave is the source of the binding. I'm really doing the magic on that."

  He snapped on his overalls. He didn't bother with his underwear or shoes. Partly because he didn't have enough time, and partly because he wanted to be prepared if Cathy felt like fooling around after the ritual.

  "Okay. Then I guess I'll just stay out of your way until you're finished."

  He scooped her up in his arms. "You're never in the way."

  "Y'know, Earl. You can make a girl almost glad she's dead."

  "Almost?"

  She shrugged. "Get me out of this cemetery, and we'll see."

  "Got yourself a deal."

  He knelt before the circle of runes. First, he burned the belladonna. Then he started the incantation, a long string of gibberish he'd had to spell out phonetically. When the time came, he sprinkled the dried raven's eye in the wind and incanted another segment of jabber. And on and on it went for about ten minutes. He'd chant and use something in the bag and chant some more and use something else in the bag. Very simple. Very redundant. Very boring.

  Most of magic, particularly the ritual ty
pe of magic, was like that. A lot like clerical work, really. Sometimes you might spice it up with a little human sacrifice or maybe an orgy, but for the most part, if it was fun to do, it wasn't really necessary.

  Most practitioners added superfluous elements to their magic just to spice things up, keep it interesting. It also helped to entertain the rubes that might make up a cult. He wasn't interested in any of that. This was just a bare-bones spell, and as he neared completion, his mind started wandering.

  Earl wasn't much for romance, but he already had the whole evening planned out. He'd complete the ritual, sweep Cathy off her feet, and carry her from the graveyard like some great, dashing figure in a cliche-ridden love story. It always struck him as corny and a little unrealistic. Nobody lived happily ever after, even people who lived forever. But he was willing to pretend that they just might.

  He traced a triangle in a circle in the dirt, raised his arms and launched into the final chant. It, at least, was in English.

  "Oh, Kings of the Earth, Oh, Masters of the Spirit Realm, I call on you to hear my plea. Release this soul from your loving embrace so that she might freely roam the earth."

  A green luminosity rose from the circle of salt, and the earth rumbled ever so lightly beneath him. He flashed a smile and a thumbs-up at Cathy.

  "Those before her have departed and no longer need tending. Her task is done. Now I humbly ask you to discharge her from her sacred duties."

  He reached to break the circle of salt as the final act of magic.

  "Earl, is this supposed to happen?"

  Cathy was fading away, and he hadn't even completed the spell. And she was right. It wasn't supposed to be happening. He forgot the ritual and ran to her. He tried to take her hands, but something was wrong. She wasn't quite solid anymore. He passed through her as if her flesh were thick motor oil.

  She read the worry in his face. "What's wrong? What's going on?"

  She faded, slipping through his fingers. He didn't know what to do to stop it.

  "Don't go," he pleaded, knowing full well she had nothing to do with this.

  Cathy dissolved into a barely visible cloud and then into nothing.

  "Goddamn it!"

  He nipped through his notepad, paced the circle, and cursed for a couple of minutes. He didn't even read the notes. He just glanced through them as if they might suddenly reveal the answer. They never did.

  A gust swept through the cemetery. The candles extinguished, and the salt blew away. The dust swallowed up the runes.

  "Son of a bitch!"

  He tapped the pad against his temple, struggling to come up with an answer. There was only one. He'd screwed up. Something had gone wrong. He'd lost her. Maybe even killed her.

  Earl's heart hammered at a thundering five beats a minute. He was too busy talking to himself to notice.

  "Damn it! Don't panic, Earl. Stay calm. It's alright. Everything's alright. She's okay. She's not dead." He winced at the very thought and repeated the last phrase like a chant. "She's not dead. She's not dead. She's not dead."

  Frustration overwhelmed him. He lashed out at a wooden grave marker. It snapped off and bounced away.

  "Goddamn it, Earl, you stupid prick. C'mon and think." He stopped and forced himself to concentrate long enough to grab a coherent thought. "Hector! He'll know what to do. Yeah. He'll know."

  He dashed out of the cemetery and toward the diner, repeating his mantra to keep sane. "She's not dead. She's not dead. She's not dead."

  In the darkness of Make Out Barn, the old gods called to Tammy. This was nothing new. They'd always talked to her. Even before she'd stumbled across her destiny. She just hadn't known enough to understand them. But the way was opening, and what had once been a nagging whisper was now a thousand chattering voices. The old gods were close. Their time was near.

  Tomorrow night.

  Already their dimensional prison was weakening. Enough that they might infuse her, their final liberator, with a taste of the goddesshood that awaited her. There were side effects. The constant drone in her head made it hard to think. And something, many things actually, slithered around in her stomach.

  The Necronomicon mentioned this. The old gods were ancient and powerful. Their energies mutated any human who invited them in. Not just physically, but mentally as well. No mortal could retain their reason under such exposure.

  But with ultimate power, who needed sanity.

  She lifted her Magic 8-Ball from the small mound of graveyard dirt. She turned over the black orb. The triangular thingamabob rose to the surface.

  "Earl, where am I?"

  She tossed the Magic 8-Ball in her backpack and removed the collection of exotic ingredients needed to create the Dust of Waking Sleep. She'd paid a hefty rush-delivery fee for her latest catalogue order and was pleased to find a plain, brown box waiting in her temple. Crazy Ctharl was not only reliable, but efficient to boot.

  The dust would handle the mortals who opposed her. Assembling it herself saved her some money, even if it was more work. As for Duke, her latest shipment contained a jar of imps. And with all those obstacles put aside, Earl would be easy enough to stake during the day.

  There was still one final problem. For the way to be opened, someone must be sacrificed. Getting a sacrifice was easy. But the sacrifice had to be performed by someone who "knew not what they did" according to her research. Paying someone to do it didn't count either. The higher forces weren't fooled by technicalities. She had to trick someone into it. There was always a catch. If these matters were easy, the old gods would not still be locked away.

  Chad spoke up from the darkened corner where he huddled. "Mistress Lilith?"

  Her head snapped around at the sudden noise, and he got a good, long look at her eyes. They were solid black. No white. No iris. Just inky darkness. He couldn't even be sure she had eyes anymore. Her sockets might very well have been empty.

  "What, Chad?"

  "Nuthin'."

  She could smell his fear. It sent a quiver through her. She smiled, drawing in a deep, deep breath. She crawled toward him on her hands and knees.

  "Does Big Jimmy need his lovin'?"

  His heart beat faster as she drew closer. She could hear its thudding, feel its beating against his ribcage. The thought of scaring him to death only made her hungrier. She roughly shoved him on his back.

  Tammy pushed away the power of the old gods. It wouldn't do to kill him just yet. Her eyes filled their sockets, but he was still scared. Just not scared enough to give up a chance to get laid.

  After she'd finished with him, she realized just how mad she must have been to have actually enjoyed sex with Chad. But soon the voices returned, and she went back to work.

  In the cramped quarters of the Magic 8-Ball, there was no room for Cathy's ectoplasmic body. She was reduced to a soul floating in murky, blue darkness. It was a lot like sitting in a warm bath way too long until the water got cold and your fingers were wrinkled and prunelike. Not that she had fingers, but there was still a general moistlike sensation in her disembodied spirit.

  She was not alone.

  "Who's there?"

  Though she didn't speak with a voice, not using even ectoplasmic vocal cords, there was an echo. It lasted a long, long time, bouncing from one end of her prison to the other and back again. There was no reply, but she was certain there was somebody else here. She could just feel him.

  "I know you're there."

  Again, no answer.

  She suddenly felt very claustrophobic. She had no form.

  Space was currently a meaningless concept, but the other bodiless soul crowded around her. She could feel him. Her five senses were gone, replaced by a kind of spectral radar she hadn't quite adjusted to yet.

  "I know you're there."

  He laughed. A dry, humorless rasp that filled the dark and chilled her.

  "Who's there?"

  The specter's rough voice wormed its way into her immaterial guts.

  "You know who I am
, Cathy."

  And she did. From somewhere other than herself the answer came.

  "Gil Wilson?"

  The name meant nothing to her. She'd never heard it before.

  "That's right, dear Cathy."

  "Where are we?"

  "You already know that as well."

  She did. From the same place she'd learned his name, more information came. They were bound within a Magic 8-Ball. Something had gone wrong, but it wasn't Earl's fault. Tammy had beaten him to the casting.

  She didn't know who Tammy was, other than she didn't like her very much. In fact, she hated her. Despised her for the ungrateful, traitorous, little bitch she was. It was all very confusing.

  "Our souls are mingled," Gil said. "A byproduct of the binding."

  Bits and pieces of Gil Wilson filtered across her consciousness. They repulsed her. She wanted to get far away from him, but there was nowhere to go. She shrank into herself. He wrapped around her, his voice echoing from every direction.

  "You can't fight it, Cathy. Your struggles only make it harder."

  "Go away."

  "I intend to. But first, I need your help."

  More knowledge came to her.

  She saw Gil poring over books, studying ancient texts, researching things man was never meant to know. Spending years and years in darkened rooms, deciphering arcane secrets, figuring heavenly alignments, and plowing deep into the advanced physics of interdimensional space until finally finding the fabled Gate of the Old Gods in a quiet, dusty town called Rockwood.

  Coming to Rockwood, he'd bought the seemingly unremarkable plot of land under which the Gate rested and built a temple to his masters, disguised as an innocuous all-night diner. It was far more than that. Cathy saw how something that looked so ordinary could be so much more. It was all in the architecture, the angles, the placement of the supporting pillars, and all the other little details that added up to something wholly unnatural. Even the positioning of the porcelain toilets and track lighting made a difference. She didn't understand completely. She didn't want to. But she knew the diner served to weaken the Gate even further, and that this was not a good thing.

  "Yes, Cathy, you know my secrets, and I know yours. I must admit I feel somewhat cheated by the exchange. I mean, really, the worst thing you ever did was lie about hitting a baseball into Mr. Weinberg's window."