Three Stories About Ghosts

by Matthew Marchitto

  “Holy shit.”

  “Thank you, Marty.”

  Marty jumped, his head whipping around to stare at the Boneman standing in his living room. The contract was already in the Boneman’s hand. His skeletal grin seemed to smile wider.

  “Do you understand the task?” The Boneman’s voice, grainy and lecherous, made Marty’s skin gooseflesh.

  “Yeah, uh, catch the in-between guy.”

  “No, not catch. Find. Find him for me. And when you do, stab him.” The Boneman held out a jagged shark tooth the size of a cleaver. “Once he is marked, I will send him away.”

  With a trembling hand Marty took the tooth. “Why can’t you do this?” God, Marty, keep your mouth shut.

  “What he touches turns to torture, screaming to be in one world or the other, caught in the middle. I will not touch him, but you can. And will. A favour is owed.”

  Marty turned the shark tooth in his hand; it was nicked, and the base was wrapped in dirty cord. He looked up, and the Boneman was gone.

  SCROLL, SCROLL, SCROLL. The social media idea wasn’t working out. Everybody was talking about video game monsters, and scary movies, and all kinds of other shit that wasn’t helping Marty find anybody.

  His eyelids started to droop, his chin drifting toward his chest. How long had he been searching? Shit, he had to go to work tomorrow. Just a few more minutes…

  Marty fell asleep, slumped on his couch with his laptop painting him in electronic light.

  Faster, Marty.

  ONE DAY EARLIER—afternoon, Abbi stomped in a circle, shaking the knickknacks on Marty’s bookshelves.

  “You did what?”

  “I signed it, okay. I just did it.”

  “Why? What’s the matter with you? Does your brain work? The Boneman’s not like us, not like me. Do you not get that?”

  Marty threw his arms into the air. “It’s done. Okay. That’s it. Signed. Done.”

  Abbi growled—full on growled at Marty.

  “Abbi?”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Okay.”

  Marty waited for phantom steam to hiss out of Abbi’s ears, but instead she let out a long sigh.

  “I don’t believe you’re getting us into this.”

  “Us?”

  “I’m not going to let you do this alone. Jesus, Marty, I don’t think you understand how bad this can get.”

  “Like, weird nightmares bad?”

  “He’s in your dreams?”

  “Is that… not normal…?”

  Abbi pinched the bridge of her nose. “You didn’t read the contract.”

  “The letters were all weird and shit.”

  She groaned. “I bet they were.”

  “You seem to know a lot about this stuff?”

  “All of us—the dead, ghosts, whatever—know about deals of the deep. Some of us learn the hard way, some get warned. Every ghost finds out eventually.” Abbi pushed her cart back and forth, its hinges squeaking. “They offer things in exchange for favours.”

  “The Boneman didn’t offer me anything.”

  “Sure he did, he got inside your head and convinced you that signing would help people. Made it seem like you’d be a hero. That’s what they do, they get in our heads.” Abbi hugged herself.

  “Did they ever offer you anything?”

  Abbi looked away. “We need to figure out how to find this rogue ghost.”

  Chapter Two

  A Lead

  AN OBNOXIOUS RAY of sunlight poked Marty’s eye. He woke with a sore neck and stiff back; he’d slept the whole night slumped on the couch. His alarm clock blared, tempting him to throw it out the window.

  Abbi was gone, back to wherever she called home. He’d never had the nerve to ask.

  He got up and started getting ready to go to Chester’s. He thought working for hellspawn would’ve let him quit dishwashing, but only the latter paid him.

  WALLACE WRUNG HIS hands in front of Mrs. Hubbard’s door. “You think it’s too early?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure she’d be happy to see you, though.”

  “No, no.” Wallace shook his head. “It’s too early. I don’t want to disturb her.”

  “Sure. So, uh, did you see my friend Abbi come through last night?”

  “Oh, yeah. She left around three in the morning. She looked a little agitated, anything you want to talk about?”

  “Not right now.” Marty started down the noisy stairs.

  “You sure? I really don’t mind,” Wallace called after him.

  Marty was already out the door.

  MARTY SCRUBBED AT a dollop of gruel. If I were a shambling, unstable half-ghost, where would I go? He had no idea.

  But if ghosts were being turned into real, physical things, then why wasn’t it all over the news? Shit gone viral, think pieces and debunking theories. But there was nothing. Maybe they just dissipate after a while? Like dead bodies in video games.

  Stephanie nudged his shoulder, startling him.

  “Woah, you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Just tired.”

  “Are you sure? You look like you barely slept.”

  It’s been one day and I’m already a mess. P.I. Marty, on the case. “Fell asleep at the computer.”

  “Ah, I got it. Tough.” She reached into her jeans and pulled out her phone. “You hear about this mad dog story?”

  “What? No.”

  She tip-tapped on her phone and then held it up to his face. Diseased dog goes rabid, has to be put down. Investigation ongoing.

  “Oh, that sucks. Poor dog,” Marty said.

  “Right, right, but listen to what some of the witnesses said.” She scrolled through the article to find the quotes and read them aloud. “‘It was like gurgling, man, all coughing and gurgling and shit was scary.’ And here’s another: ‘It looked fat and gooey, like it was melting on the inside.’” Stephanie pushed hair out of her eyes. “Creepy, right? The police say whatever it had isn’t contagious.”

  Marty’s mind reeled. That had to be one of the monsters made by the in-betweener. Gurgling and melting? “Can you send me a link to that story?”

  “Sure.”

  Marty’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and a surge of excitement shot through him. It was his first lead.

  But the dishes needed to get done.

  Scrub, scrub.

  MARTY HUNCHED OVER his phone in the corner of the kitchen, wolfing down a chicken sandwich while he read through the article for the twelfth time. It had happened in his neighbourhood, Ville-Émard. But there were no street addresses in the article.

  He swiped over to Twitter and found the account of the reporter who’d showed up after the police. There was a picture of a couple cop cars and police officers standing near the lip of a lane. The post read: Animal Disturbance Near Mazarin And Jolicoeur, Ongoing. Marty refreshed the page to see if the reporter had said anything else and—the post disappeared.

  Deleted? Weird.

  Marty had a location. He didn’t know what he’d find, if anything. But it was a start.

  Alhad sat across from him, hairy arms folded on the table. “Like the sandwich?”

  Marty nodded with a mouthful. It was made from fancy-ass bread and a bunch of toppings Marty didn’t recognize. It was damn good, though.

  “I can give you some to take home, there’s always leftovers,” Alhad said.

  Ah, right. Alhad always offered to give Marty food, because he knew Marty didn’t work full-time and lived on his own. Montréal was an affordable city to live in, as far as metropolises went, but it wasn’t that affordable. What Alhad didn’t know was that Marty only paid $400 a month in rent.

  The landlady thought her apartment was haunted. So Marty, being a young entrepreneur, had offered to perform a séance. “I’ve done it before, trust me.” She didn’t, but offered an obscenely reduced rent if he could actually perform one.

  Marty, the landlady, and her daughter all sat around a table holding hands. Marty had lit
some candles because that seemed right. Marty did a lot of ohming and rocking back and forth. The landlady was unimpressed.

  Enter Abbi and Carla.

  Carla shuffled in with her walker, a coy smile on her face. With some groans and curses, she climbed onto the table, hauling her walker up with her, and started stomping around. The table shook. Now the landlady was paying attention.

  And then Abbi started jabbing the light switch, making the lights flicker.

  Now the landlady was really impressed.

  All the while, Jeff—the ghost that actually lived in the landlady’s apartment—was chuckling hysterically. Jeff had OCD, and couldn’t help his impulses to open and close cupboard doors and turn faucets on and off. He didn’t mean any harm.

  It was ridiculous, but it had both impressed and freaked out the landlady. And he’d needed the reduced rent.

  Alhad brushed his beard. “It’s no problem, Marty. I’d like you to have it.”

  “Why not give it to a shelter?”

  “There will always be more to give away tomorrow.”

  “Well, if you insist.”

  Alhad grinned wide, and within minutes there was a stack of foam containers in a plastic bag waiting for Marty to take home.

  Marty was glad to have the leftovers, even though a part of him felt bad, like he shouldn’t take it unless he really needed it.

  MARTY WAS PULLING on his hoodie and backpack when he saw Abbi waiting by the door. Her cart was just outside, and a length of intestine was keeping the door from closing all the way. Joe kept cursing as he tried to pull it shut, opened it to look at the hinges, and then failed to close it again.

  Marty shooed Abbi outside, and when the door closed behind him he heard a muffled “What the fuck?”

  “Something’s definitely wrong,” Abbi said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember what Carla said about that shambler guy? More people are talking about him. And it all boils down to avoid him. No one’s said why, exactly, but I think he’s more dangerous than we thought.”

  “Okay, that helps. But we still have to find him.” Marty took out his phone and loaded up the news article. “I have a lead.”

  THE CORNER OF Mazarin and Jolicoeur was entirely uninteresting and quiet. No police cars or hellfire demons.

  “So, uh, what should we look for?” Marty asked.

  “You’re asking me?”

  “I don’t know. Can you, like, sense ghost stuff?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, alright. Let’s look around.”

  Marty and Abbi made a round of the nearby streets, walking through the lanes. There was a lot of nothing.

  Until they found a wide swatch of darkened concrete that looked like it’d been hosed down.

  “You think this is where they found it?” Marty asked.

  “I guess they washed away whatever was left.”

  “This story online happened today, at like 3:00 A.M. They dealt with it really fast.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Marty circled around the wet patch of cement. Quick clean-up. Is that normal? He guessed they wouldn’t want a dead dog’s blood lying around. Of course, if this wasn’t a dog, then they wouldn’t want people finding out about it. “The reporter who was on the scene deleted her post about the story.”

  “Maybe she got something wrong and didn’t want it staying up?”

  Marty refreshed the reporter’s profile: a few new posts about unrelated stories, nothing about the ‘diseased dog.’

  “I think they’re covering it up,” Marty said.

  “The police? Shit, that makes sense. They don’t want people knowing about this stuff, that’s if they even understand what’s happening.”

  “And they washed away any clues.”

  “I don’t think you were going to find much, Marty.” Abbi glanced at the wet patch. “It’s probably better that way.”

  IF ABBI HAD to keep watching Marty refresh news sites and social media searches, she was going to lose her mind, which impressed Marty given she was dead. They decided to hit the streets and do ‘verbal reconnaissance’ (talk to people).

  Jean wasn’t much help. All he knew was what Carla had already told them, and then he started going on and on about Bigfoot. Marty had never thought an urban myth could be so boring. Jean was convinced Bigfoot was out there, and that the Sasquatch was Bigfoot’s cousin. Apparently, he’d been working on a book titled Yeti, and damn wasn’t it a shame he hadn’t finished it. Well, bye. Nice talking to you.

  Next was Granny Greta, a lovely old woman who spent her time in a rocking chair near a seldom-used park (probably seldom-used because the chair kept rocking with no one in it). She didn’t know much either, other than that Carla was trying to nick her carrot cake recipe, and O lord have mercy that wasn’t going to happen. Okay, thanks, bye.

  Bernard was more forthcoming. A grumpy middle-aged guy with an ashy face and sandpaper stubble, he told them that folks were walking carefully in the whole area between Verdun and Lasalle. He’d heard more than a few warnings to avoid any ghosts that looked unstable. Also, he’d heard a rumour from Kyle that the Boneman was on the prowl. When Marty asked what that meant, Bernard just shrugged, adjusted his toque and sauntered away.

  They had a general area, then, but it was still a big swath of land for the two of them to canvas.

  It was afternoon when they decided to take a break, grabbing some coffee. Marty pressed himself into the café’s corner as usual, headset on, as Abbi sat across from him. He would be perpetually perplexed by how people just walked around her cart, without even noticing.

  That was why it’d taken him so long to realize what was going on. He’d mentioned it to his parents early on, not thinking it was abnormal. A few psychiatry visits and a brain scan later, and Marty learned to keep his mouth shut. There was a time when he would lose his temper; he’d go red-faced screaming that this was all real. He couldn’t remember what the pills were, but he hadn’t liked them. They never made the ghosts go away anyway.

  “Well, we have a chunk of potentially searchable land,” Marty said.

  “Yeah, but what are we going to do with it?”

  Marty sipped his latte, watching the cream swirl inside. “Maybe we could narrow our searches for news articles in the area.”

  Abbi nodded. “Yeah, okay. Maybe do the same with a bunch of social media, look for people posting in and about certain locations.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  Out the window, the living walked among the dead, their rosy cheeks a sharp contrast to the pallid complexion of the ghosts.

  Sometimes Marty wished ghosts were more like they were in cartoons. Transparent and wispy, passing through walls with big, dopey eyes. These, what he saw; they were too real.

  He’d only been to one funeral: his father insisted that he see the open casket, even though he was only eight years old. Ghosts look how grandpa’s body did: cold, pale, unsettling.

  On the corner stood a solitary figure, half obscured by shadow. Flayed flesh, burning eyes, and a skeletal grin.

  Marty gasped. “Look.”

  But he was gone.

  “What was it?”

  Marty’s blood went cold and he felt jittery, on edge. Too much coffee, I’ve got to lay off it.

  “Marty?”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired.”

  Chapter Three

  Running Around Corners

  MARTY HAD SO many tabs open they were like pinpricks in his browser. He kept switching through them, hitting refresh on each one, and repeating the process.

  Abbi had left because she couldn’t stand watching him tab through them anymore. His computer was making an alarming churning noise, too.

  But he kept tabbing anyway. It was all he could think to do. He had a mix of local news sites and social media search queries open, hoping to catch any hint of the in-betweener’s movements.

  A Twitter post popped
up linking to a news article about a raging homeless man. Weird, when Marty went to the site he couldn’t find it on the home page or in recent entries. Whatever, the link still worked.

  A homeless man became unstable last night, threatening passers-by. He seemed unable to move when police arrived on the scene to arrest him. One witness claims the man made an unusual wailing noise as he was pushed into the back of a police car. When asked to describe him, the witness said he looked ‘like his bones weren’t right. Like, they were all in the wrong place.’ Police say there is nothing to worry about and the man will be referred to psychiatric support.

  Woah. Marty did a search for ‘homeless’ posts timestamped the night before. After a few minutes he found one that looked right. The caption read Creepy Homeless Guy Was Freaking Us Out, with a picture of police pulling a figure with a blanket over his head into a police car. But the homeless guy’s silhouette was off, bulky and inhuman. If he hadn’t read the article, Marty wouldn’t have thought it was a person. The more he looked, the more it unsettled him.

  That had to be one of the transformed ghosts from the in-betweener. Was there a pattern in who he chose, or was he just doing it to anyone that got near him? I’ve got to hurry, or he’s going to hurt more people.

  Marty wondered what it felt like to be a ghost and then turned into one of those monstrosities. He didn’t think being alive again, if it could even be called that, was worth how tortuous the transformation seemed. He didn’t want that to happen to any of his friends.

  He kept tabbing through his browser, refreshing each page.

  MARTY WOKE UP drooling onto his keyboard while Abbi poked his face.

  “Whauhguh.”

  “You’re late and Alhad’s been texting you like crazy.” Abbi pointed to Marty’s buzzing phone.