by Icy Sedgwick
“I know what you are,” said Dr McKenzie at last.
Fowlis looked around for a radio and cursed the scientist for keeping music out of the lab when he saw none. Instead, he noticed the computer. It was switched on with a document already open. He’d never tried computers, though he didn’t think they would be altogether that much different from the typewriters he’d discovered in the 1960s. Either way, it would be a lot more fun, and quicker, than a Ouija board.
Manifesting his energy into his fingers, he pressed the keys to spell out his message.
You know I am a ghost, but you do not know what a ghost is.
Dr McKenzie looked genuinely shocked as he watched the keys move by themselves while the letters appeared on the screen.
“You can hear me?” he asked.
Fowlis typed again.
Of course I can hear you. I am dead, not deaf.
“Then what is a ghost?”
A ghost is what I am. A ghost is not what you think. We operate outside of your narrow boundaries.
“What boundaries?”
Those which you create with your science.
“Why are you here?”
Ask your daughter. She knows more than she should, and less than she wants to.
“Why her?”
She found something and she will not put it back.
“She told us that you are mad at her. You know, I’ve given it some thought and I think her idea would be quite workable if we could work out how to stop people coming back when the first event was a success.”
I am not a performing monkey.
“We know you are not,” began Dr McKenzie, but more typing cut him off.
I am also tired. This conversation is at an end.
Fowlis stepped away from the computer feeling distinctly woozy. Electrical devices took much more out of him than he had thought they would. It didn’t surprise him. Computers hadn’t existed in his day. If a man had entered a tavern announcing that one day men would sit before illuminated boxes that were not lit by firelight and these boxes would connect them with people all over the globe, that man would have been burned at the stake.
Chapter 19
Sarah didn’t know what to say to soothe her mother’s nerves. Fowlis would never actively harm someone but she didn’t know how to convince her mother of that. It didn’t help that she couldn’t get her mother to tell her what happened. Not knowing what scared a person made it difficult to reassure them.
“We need to get rid of him,” said her mother.
“Only earlier you were saying you wanted to talk to him.”
Sarah glanced down at her laptop. Her three messages to Jamie had gone unanswered. Her luck hadn’t been much better on the paranormal investigation forum she had found. Investigators insisted they ‘dispose’ of Fowlis themselves, and sceptics told Sarah she was insane.
“That was before he spoke to me. It’s not right, Sarah. He’s the cause of all of this. We should get an exorcist.”
“No, Mum, we can’t do that,” said Sarah.
“Why not?”
“Well, I’ve got his anchor. He could only be exorcised if a priest or someone found the anchor and removed it from the house,” replied Sarah.
“So why don’t you just go and bury it in the grounds somewhere? Leave it in the forest. Or drop it in the lake.”
“What lake?”
“The one in the forest. It’s a ten-minute walk or so. We could do it now, and be back by dinner.”
“I can’t do that!” Sarah stared at her mother in disbelief.
“Why not?”
“It’s horrible. Fowlis would be stuck at the bottom of the lake until someone from HQ could find him. He could be stuck down there for days…or weeks even. That’s really unpleasant.”
“Sarah, don’t be so stubborn. And stop putting this ghost before your family!” Her mother glared at her. Her nostrils flared and a tiny vein throbbed in her temple.
Sarah sighed. She liked Fowlis and enjoyed having someone around she could talk to. She still thought her plan about allowing journalists to experience Fowlis’s best work was a good idea, not only for Fowlis but also for her parents. Her mother would disprove Mrs Campbell’s allegations, and her father could make waves in the scientific community. She just needed more time to convince Fowlis.
Her father burst through the door. He waved a printed sheet at her, before placing it with a flourish on the table. She peered at the sheets, eyes widening to read the conversation.
“Quite remarkable. I wonder how a cavalier learned to use a computer.”
“He’s been doing hauntings for years, Dad. He probably figured out what they’re for at someone else’s house. I guess if he saw someone using one, it wouldn’t take long to learn what they do.” Sarah looked over the conversation and groaned when she saw Fowlis had dragged her name into it.
“I want you to bring him down here. Right now,” said her father.
“He told me that he wasn’t allowed to speak to you.”
“But he has. He’s spoken to me, albeit through a computer. That still counts as contact. Any of his arguments about being unable to speak to me are now null and void.”
“And he spoke to me through the radio,” added her mother. “That’s contact, isn’t it?”
“Yeah but he only spoke to you because you know about him now. I bet you spoke to him first,” replied Sarah.
“Well I did. I knew it was him. But still, he spoke to us! There can surely be no harm in speaking to him now, especially since he knows that we know about him,” said her father.
“I guess…”
Sarah put her hand in her pocket and pulled out the pendant. She looked around the room for Fowlis but couldn’t see him. She rubbed it and turned the cameo over in her hands.
“Fowlis?”
Nothing. Sarah blew on the pendant and pressing it to the palm of her hand. She listened hard for his usual sardonic greeting but heard only the wind rushing past the window. She got up and walked around the library in case he might be hiding somewhere. The shelves held only books, the corners simply cobwebs.
“What’s wrong?” asked her father.
“He hasn’t appeared.” A knot of worry settled in Sarah’s stomach.
Her mother took the pendant out of her hands. She examined the curlicues and delicate cameo. Judging by the lack of reaction, her mother didn’t see Fowlis either. Her mother pursed her lips and handed the pendant to Dr McKenzie. The knot of worry turned cold and heavy.
“Can you see him?” asked Sarah in a small voice.
“No.”
“You do still believe me, don’t you?” She stared at her parents in turn. Her father avoided eye contact and her mother twisted her wedding ring around her finger.
“Yes. He has spoken to both of us, after all,” said her father. He exchanged glances with her mother. Sarah didn’t like that look, equal parts disbelief and concern for her welfare. Why didn’t they believe her? Why would she make all of this up? And where did they think she’d found the pendant if this was all a stunt? Tears of frustration pricked the back of her eyes and she fought to keep her voice steady.
“I don’t know where he is. But look at the print-out. He ends the conversation because he’s too tired to continue. Maybe that means he’s too tired to manifest.” Sarah fixed her gaze on the table and pressed her hands against the hard wood. She would not let her parents see her tremble.
“I see. Well, I have work I should be getting on with. Give him another half hour or so and try again. If he reappears, come to the office.” Her father passed her the pendant and left the room without looking at Sarah. Her mother shook her head before following him out of the library. Angry shouting from the hall told her that more journalists had clustered beside the front door again.
Sarah stared after her parents and burst into tears.
* * *
Thick darkness permeated the attic when Fowlis awoke. He adjusted to his night vision and the room melte
d into view. The long shadows sculpted objects out of the gloom and the far wall was empty of bats. Brie slept at the bottom of the chaise longue, her tail curled around herself. Fowlis stretched and enjoyed a deep yawn. He gathered his spirit stuff into a more corporeal form and straightened his hat. Fowlis looked around the attic, surprised that no calls for party tricks or pleas for help had disturbed his sleep.
He floated down through the floor and practised extinguishing the wall lamps with a flick of his wrist. Fowlis believed in continual practice and tried to follow his set exercises daily. He had originally developed the exercises for trainee haunters, but found his own hauntings maintained a certain level of efficiency if he followed them himself. Extinguishing lights and changing temperatures were fairly basic practices yet they were highly effective all the same.
He wandered along to the office where Dr McKenzie sat at his desk using the computer. He consulted something on the screen before tapping at the keyboard. Unlike the secretaries Fowlis had haunted during the 1960s in a Luton office block, the scientist typed using only his index fingers. It gave his typing a laboured and monotonous sound.
Fowlis couldn’t muster any real interest in Dr McKenzie’s work, and moved on to Mrs McKenzie, who dozed in the huge armchair in the morning room. A fire crackled in the hearth beside her and envy rippled through Fowlis. He couldn’t remember the last time he enjoyed sitting beside a fire. Warming oneself by the hearth had been one of life’s simple pleasures back in his day. Nowadays, radiators and underfloor heating infested houses of all sizes and shapes. These people didn’t know what it meant to be cold.
Fowlis checked the antique clock in the corridor outside the library and saw it was only 8:30pm. He had expected to find Sarah nosing through old books, or using that infernal machine, but the room was empty. The library was lonely and desolate without human occupants. Even Fowlis felt the chill emanating from the ancient stone walls. Her laptop was gone and the table looked forlorn. That was the trouble with libraries—they expected to be used.
He found Sarah in her bedroom. She sat up in bed, propped up against her pillows. The laptop lay open in front of her. Sadness hung heavy in the air and Fowlis sensed dry tears on her cheeks.
“Sarah?” Fowlis stood at the foot of her bed. This time he wore a kindly smile and allowed it to reach his twinkling eyes. He held his hat in one hand, pressed against his chest.
“Where have you been?” She glowered at him, her tone thick with anger.
“What do you mean?” asked Fowlis.
“My parents wanted to see you earlier, but when I held the pendant, nothing happened. So I gave it to them, and both of them tried it, but they didn’t see you either. I don’t think they believe me anymore.”
“My dear, they would have to be true simpletons not to believe you after I have made direct contact myself.”
“You didn’t see the way they looked at me,” replied Sarah. A tear welled up in her left eye. “Why didn’t you come?”
“I had worn myself out talking to your father through the electronic box. I needed to sleep to recharge myself.”
“But you’d be feeding off me. Why couldn’t you have come?”
“I am very sorry, my dear. Sometimes a ghost is too far into sleep to come when called. However, I am here now.” Fowlis smiled.
“Would you let them see you now?”
“I have been thinking about this in my sleep,” began Fowlis.
“You think in your sleep?”
“Yes. So do you mortals, although you insist on calling this thinking ‘dreaming.’ It amazes me the number of books that you dedicate to interpreting dreams. If you simply applied common sense you would be able to unravel the conclusions you reach during the sleep state,” replied Fowlis. “However, if I may continue?”
Sarah nodded.
“To be honest, I feel as though I have no choice but to let them see me,” continued Fowlis. “There are extenuating circumstances, and I cannot complete my haunting as normal. As it is, your possession of my anchor means that my work goes unnoticed, and therefore anything that I do is essentially pointless.”
“Does that mean your bosses can’t see you? Why not?”
“There is a rather grave situation going on at HQ and I must return as soon as I can. However, my assistant cannot locate me as you have my anchor. In effect, you are screening my existence from those observing at HQ.”
“But I don’t have your anchor right now. It’s on my bedside table.”
“It is still in your room, and therefore considered your possession. Normally it not being on your person would be enough to release me so that HQ could see me, but it seems that something has gone wrong, and I will only be available to them if you return the pendant to the fireplace. It is quite unprecedented in haunting history, although I must confess that I would rather keep this particular incident off my record if possible.” Fowlis looked over his shoulder. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.
“Why are you actually explaining this to me?”
“I feel I must. I need to get back to HQ as quickly as possible, but I cannot do that without your cooperation.”
“So what would happen if I put your anchor back? Would you appear back where you’re supposed to be?” asked Sarah.
“Yes. And in return for your cooperation in doing so, I will be prepared to haunt a collective of journalists and other interested parties for one night, and one night only. You will have to deal with the consequences, but this was your idea so the responsibility must lie with you.”
“I do have one question, though.”
“Only one, Sarah?” Fowlis rolled his eyes.
“What I most want to know why you have to haunt people in the first place. What does it achieve?”
“The worlds of the living and dead are separated by a boundary, which we call the Veil. Mirrors and shadows penetrate this boundary, which allow me to speak to those at HQ during a haunting. However, the Veil is an organic structure, and requires maintenance. It lives and breathes, in a way, and it is the energy generated by mortals that keeps it intact and thus prevents the two worlds colliding. The Managing Director outdid herself when she put that in place,” replied Fowlis.
“What would happen if the Veil broke down?”
“It did once before, and the world of the living was overrun by the dead. I do not mean in spiritual form, such as the form I take, I mean that the dead quite literally returned. The Managing Director instituted the new administrative system of organisation that allows us to haunt in a consistent manner, and thus generate the requisite energy to maintain the Veil. However, this is really rather tiring, do you mind if I allow my body to fade and merely communicate by voice?”
Fowlis took a deep breath and stopped concentrating on holding together his spectral body. It dissolved around him, fluttering like ribbons in the breeze, until all that was left was the scent of burning oak. He walked around her bed and sat down. Sarah’s eyes widened as the side of the mattress dipped down. It was so long since Fowlis had seen a ghost, he’d forgotten what hauntings looked like to mortals. Still, this mortal wasn’t going to go away without explanations.
“I am not supposed to explain any of this to you, Sarah, but you’re obviously not going to allow me to remain vague on the subject, and I daresay I won’t get your cooperation if I attempt to be so. I shall explain a few things to you, Sarah, but you must promise not to repeat them to anyone. Ever. You cannot tell any of these things to another mortal as long as you live. Is that understood?” The disembodied voice came from the side of her bed. She shivered to hear Fowlis but not see him.
“Why can’t I tell anyone?” she asked.
“Few if any would believe you, and you do not want to draw such attention to yourself. Do you promise?”
Sarah nodded.
“The whole concept of this entire set-up is that when you die, your soul goes straight to the place we know as HQ. Not Heaven, not Hell, not Purgatory, merely an extr
emely tidy and well-organised old building that houses the departed. It never gets full since the inhabitants, its ghosts, are assigned hauntings, as I told you previously. We haunt, we return to HQ, rest, and are re-assigned. This set-up has existed for thousands of years; indeed, it stretches back to the beginning of civilised man,” continued the voice.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you have to be organised?”
“When mankind first began to evolve, the world became full of listless spirits of the dead. The Managing Director needed some way of keeping them occupied so that they didn’t wreak havoc on the living. Humanity tends towards hierarchy and organisation, so her idea was genius,” said Fowlis.
“Who’s the Managing Director?”
“She is the entity in charge of it all. She goes by many names in many different cultures, and none of them are entirely accurate, but I suppose you might refer to her as Death.”
Sarah started. “Death? I thought Death was a he.”
“A common misconception. She has appeared in that form before but she is indeed a she,” replied Fowlis. “Naturally she likes us to work hard to suppress any real contact between the worlds of the living and the dead, although there are some among you mortals with the Sight. By and large, we work with these individuals and enjoy rather fruitful relationships.”
“What about mediums?” Sarah thought of all the TV shows she’d watched about ghosts and hauntings. Her father dismissed them all as hokum, but her mother enjoyed watching the stage show versions. The mediums bounded about on stage, passing on messages from the other side, but Sarah always found the messages too vague or cryptic to be of any real value. Surely a ghost would be as articulate as Fowlis?
“We have no real criteria for these individuals, but in a general sense, if a person is on the television and lays claim to powers of mediumship, then in all likelihood they possess none. It is mere glory seeking of the most repugnant order,” replied Fowlis. “However, they serve their purpose in both spreading ghost stories and engendering a healthy fear of the spirit world.”