Three Stories About Ghosts

by Matthew Marchitto

  The screen lit up with Where are you? and I can only cover you for so long.

  “I ugh, pfft, kay.”

  Abbi hauled Marty off the couch and shoved him toward the bathroom.

  Work, right. He still had to go. He should’ve gotten the Boneman to include a stipend. He chuckled through a mouthful of toothpaste.

  “Holy shit. Marty, look at this.”

  Marty stumbled out of the bathroom, and one of his keyword searches had just refreshed with a post that was only a few seconds old. There was a pic of a shadowed creature with the caption wtf is this? Marty recognized the street: it was nearby.

  Marty threw on his clothes and dashed out the door, Abbi’s calls muffled by the door closing behind him.

  MARTY ROUNDED THE corner and knew something wasn’t right. There were no police cars, but two large black vans blocked the street and a gaggle of meatheads in black suits stood blocking the sidewalk.

  Marty wasn’t getting in that way, but he wasn’t letting this chance go either. Instead he entered the laneway, walking a good distance to get past the vans, and then he climbed the fence into somebody’s backyard.

  He heaved himself over the top, sweat beading his forehead, and then tumbled onto the lawn with a groan. I need to go to the gym. He groaned his way over another fence, confident he had pulled a muscle, and then he was standing on the closed-off street.

  Marty recognized the house he’d seen in the picture’s background. A black car was parked in the middle of the street, and just beyond it was where the creature should be. Marty sidled up to the car, peering into the space between two houses.

  Obscured by shadows was a writhing mound of flesh. It gurgled and undulated, its skin stretching and twitching like a sack filled with twigs. Marty turned away, willing himself not to vomit.

  But standing around the creature were three people: a blonde woman with a buzz cut, a doughy guy, and an unnaturally thin bald man with pallid skin—a ghost. The ghost was talking to the two people.

  Talking to them.

  They can see him.

  Holy shit. I thought I was the only one.

  The bald ghost hesitated, and then looked right at Marty. The woman pulled back her jacket, revealing a gun.

  Marty bolted, fear pumping blood to his legs. The doughy guy charged after him.

  Marty wasn’t doing the fences again, so he ran right for the black vans. The meatheads looked perplexed, unsure how to react to this huffing, out-of-shape dude pounding towards them. Behind him, the doughy guy was shouting, his face red. Marty couldn’t hear him: he just needed to get out of there.

  He reached the vans and vaulted over them—about part way before his face smacked into the hood and he rolled off onto the street, taking one of the side mirrors with him.

  The meatheads scrambled forward, but Marty was up and running before they could reach him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw four meatheads and dough guy chasing him through the street. Panicked, he ran for a house, darting down the side path into the back yard.

  He jumped at the gate, smashed his knee, and groaned his way over the top. A dog inside the house barked. Marty stumbled over a kids’ play set and sidestepped a swing that threatened to break his nose. By the time he got to the other fence, the meatheads were falling over each other to get into the backyard.

  Marty got over the fence, mercifully waist high, and ran down the lane. If he could just get around the corner, he’d be able to lose the meatheads.

  Dough guy stood at the end of the lane. Shit. Marty turned on a heel, and the meathead gaggle were bearing down on him.

  Marty jumped over a wooden fence, his out-of-shape arms shaking as he pulled himself up and over and—splash—he fell right into a pool. Fuck me.

  He dog-paddled to the edge, disgruntled grunts coming from the other side of the fence. Sopping wet, he ran from the backyard and into the street.

  He was alone: turn a corner or two, and that’d be it. Marty started jogging away, but fuck was he tired. His legs felt heavy, and he had to stop, hands on his knees, to get his breath.

  And then the doughy guy rounded the corner. Marty bolted, which wasn’t very fast. Doughy guy wasn’t doing so great either, his face was flushed, sweat dripping down his forehead. Marty tried to out-jog him, and they kept pace like a pair of retirees.

  Marty turned into a mom-and-pop store that sold kitchen utensils. Pots and pans jangled as Marty’s shoulder’s brushed against them. Marty ignored the owner’s hollering as he ran for the back door—only to realize the back door was locked.

  Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck.

  Dough guy limped into the store, hand on his side.

  “Alright, you little shit,” he said with a thick French-Canadian accent. “You’re coming with—”

  Marty chucked a pan at his head.

  Dough guy raised his arms and the pan thwonged against him. Marty hobbled around the isles and to the door.

  He was exhausted, breathing heavy, feeling faint. He charged at the door and…

  Whoever owned the mom-and-pop shop must have been meticulous about keeping it clean, because Marty would have sworn that the door was wide open.

  …Marty crashed through the glass with a yelp. Shards cascading around him like flecks of snow.

  He kept running, looking over his shoulder once to see the doughy guy—face flushed and breathing heavy—trying to placate the screaming owner.

  Chapter Four

  BOA

  MARTY LEANED AGAINST his sink, topless. Abbi looked over his shoulders, back, arms, everything.

  “You got lucky. Like, really lucky,” Abbi said. “That hoodie is garbage now, by the way.”

  Marty had managed to avoid getting any glass shards stuck in him, but his pool-drenched hoodie wasn’t so lucky. With a grimace, he stuffed his clothes into a garbage bag.

  Pajamas equipped, he slumped onto the couch, feeling like his entire body was made of jelly.

  “Who were those guys, cops?” Marty asked.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Abbi sat cross-legged on the couch, her cart creaking as her intestines pulled it nearer.

  “Don’t tell me they’re, like, the FBI or something?”

  Abbi chewed her lower lip. “Okay. I’m not supposed to tell you this, okay? But—ah, shit. Just”—she palmed her eyes—“they were probably the BOA.”

  “And that’s…?”

  “It’s the Bureau of Otherworldly Affairs.”

  Marty scrunched up his face. The cogs in his brain were whirring and churning; he was so damn tired. “Wait, I’ve heard of them. They’re the ones that record people’s ghost stories and go into the woods looking for yetis. They’re a joke. Not the kind of people that wear black suits and have black vans and shit like that.”

  “That’s a front, Marty. They do some serious shit.”

  “You’re kidding? You have to be. The BOA have that dinky little shithole wedged into the corner of Place des Arts, the place that sells those cute Casper-wannabe hats in a gift shop. They don’t walk around with guns.”

  “Marty, trust me. The BOA is serious.”

  “Remember that story from a couple years ago? They spent two weeks in a woman’s house recording this mysterious white noise, and it turned out to be an old radio the woman forgot to turn off.”

  “It’s. A. Front.”

  “I’m pretty sure the BOA museum has a bake sale once a year.”

  “Marty…”

  “They’re like that Ancient Aliens guy.”

  “No they’re not!” Abbi threw her hands into the air. “This shit is serious, Marty. And if the BOA is involved, then you should be scared.”

  Marty crossed his arms. “Okay, jeez, I get it.”

  They were silent for a time. Marty mindlessly refreshed the browser tabs on his computer.

  “Could they help?” Marty asked.

  “That’s probably a bad idea.” Abbi sighed. “And I think they and the Boneman are sort of not on the same team.”

  “I�
�m working for the bad guy?”

  “I wouldn’t call either one of them good guys, but basically, yeah.”

  Marty groaned, letting himself sink into the sofa. His phone vibrated. Eighteen texts and six voicemails. He set his phone to night mode and put it face down on his coffee table.

  “Your friends are going to be angry,” Abbi said.

  “It feels like that’s not really important now.”

  “It could be, or should be. The world’s not stopping.”

  “It’ll stop if I piss off the Bonedude.”

  Abbi smirked. “Heh, Bonedude.”

  They both laughed. Tension bled out of him, rising off his body like mist. As he wiped away the tears from his watering eyes, he couldn’t help but notice that even while laughing, Abbi was still that same sickly pale tone.

  “What’s it mean if the BOA is involved?” Marty asked eventually.

  “I’m not sure, but it’s not good. I don’t know if they have the full picture, they might just be tracking down the monsters and not know what’s happening to them.”

  “But if they’re with the government, then maybe I can talk to them? Get them to understand that I need help.”

  “That’s probably not a good idea.”

  “I can show them this, maybe they can even do it for me.” Marty reached into his backpack and brandished the Boneman’s shark tooth dagger.

  Abbi scuttled back, trying to get as far away as possible, her feet digging furrows in the couch’s cushions. “Jesus fuck, Marty, get that thing away from me.”

  Marty brought it close to his chest. “What?”

  “Don’t touch me with it. Don’t come near me with it. Get it out of here.”

  “I don’t understand.” Marty stashed the shark tooth back in his bag. “I wasn’t going to touch you with it.”

  Abbi closed her eyes, slowing her breathing. After a few moments she said, “The Boneman gave that to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you just took it?”

  “Well, uh, I mean, yeah.”

  “Okay,” Abbi sighed. “Okay, first of all you should be scared shitless of anything a ghost from the deep gives you. Especially because it’s one of the few ways ghost objects become material objects, and any ghost that wants that should be treated with a giant wad of scepticism. Second, what are you supposed to do with it?”

  “I’m supposed to use it on the in-betweener—I guess to stab him?—and then the Boneman can make him pass on.”

  “‘Pass on’ is a polite way to put it.”

  “You know, I don’t get it. These deep ghosts are supposed to be all scary and evil and shit, but then why is he trying to get the in-betweener to pass on? That seems like a pretty good thing to want, so why’s the Boneman all messed-up and scary and shit?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really know why anything is the way it is. What I do know is that ghosts like the Boneman have a job, a purpose. They help keep some semblance of order between ghostness and humanness. I don’t know why they have to be fucked-up to do it.”

  Marty paced around his coffee table. “But if they keep order and stuff, does that mean they have bosses who tell them what to do?”

  “It’s better not to think about it.”

  “So there’s, like, an all-knowing Cthulhu that’s running the show?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t. But whatever kind of things are the Boneman’s boss, you don’t want to even think about them, because the second they start thinking about you—” Abbi looked away. “Let’s not talk about this anymore, okay?” She nudged his laptop with her foot. “You’re due for a refresh marathon.”

  Refresh, refresh, refresh. Marty had expected hunting down a ghost monster to be more thrilling than this. Refresh. Maybe I should try new keywords? Refresh. Maybe I need to try something entirely different…

  One of the news sites’ Facebook accounts updated with a new story. Picture of sick animal sparks Twitter outrage. The story went on:

  Early this morning a woman shared this photo of a sick animal in her backyard. Users immediately started chiding her and the city for letting a creature devolve to this state. Authorities say that the animal was terminally ill and has been cared for in a humane fashion. Users are demanding answers, saying that no animal should’ve been allowed to degrade to such a point. The animal is assumed to be a dog, but police would not confirm or deny whether it was or wasn’t a dog.

  The picture was blurry, and the creature was half under shrubbery, obscured by shadows. Marty read on:

  The woman, who wishes to remain anonymous, said she was too frightened to go near the animal. Some are saying the culprit is an unknown third party, while others accuse the woman herself of being the abuser. “How else could that poor thing have gotten into her yard?” said Twitter user @BlitzPounder1980.

  Marty squinted at the picture. That wasn’t a dog. It conjured the image of the thing he’d seen with the BOA agents. Marty’s blood went cold, and he started to get the feeling the in-betweener was going to have a lot more victims. Why was he doing it? Was there a reason, or had he just gone insane?

  Or was he angry? Marty had never considered that. After hearing Carla’s description of a shambling man, Marty had assumed the in-betweener was apathetic. But if he was angry, then he’d be looking for people to hurt. Which meant he was more dangerous than Marty had first realized.

  Another Twitter post, this time by a random user. It was a picture of two black vans and some familiar-looking meatheads around a creature under a blanket. The text read, this is starting to get scary, and they tagged the Mayor of Montréal.

  And another news story on a separate site hit: Sick family of raccoons scare locals. Nothing to worry about, say police. But when Marty tabbed over to Twitter he saw a response to the article, raccoons my ass, what the hell is this? Attached was a shaky video of an undulating mass pressed underneath a backyard deck.

  Holy shit. The in-betweener was losing it. How many more had he affected that weren’t in these stories? How many ghosts had he put through this torment?

  Marty needed to find the in-betweener before he hurt more people.

  MARTY BOUGHT A stack of sticky notes and wrote everything he knew about the in-betweener and the locations mentioned in the articles on them, sticking them to his wall.

  The articles and social media posts were becoming more frequent, going viral among locals. Marty wouldn’t be surprised if the six o’clock news covered the story.

  Marty slapped another sticky note to the wall just as his phone started to vibrate. The caller ID read Steph.

  Marty’s thumb hovered over the end call button. He realized he’d missed a day of work, and had no idea when his next shift was. Did it matter? He was doing something bigger, more important.

  The phone kept vibrating in his hand.

  They might be worried.

  They might be angry.

  Marty looked at his wall of sticky notes. It felt like progress, but it also felt like he was running in place.

  He picked up the phone. “Hi.”

  “Marty? Are you alright?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t show up yesterday, and you went totally dark. No one could reach you. Alhad almost called your parents, he thought something bad happened.”

  Marty winced. “I’m fine, everything’s fine.”

  “Fine? What happened yesterday?”

  Marty switched the phone from ear to ear. “Um.” He didn’t have an excuse. And I can’t tell her I’m hunting ghosts. “Uh.”

  “Marty, what’s wrong? Something’s wrong.”

  “No, no. Everything’s fine. It just, uh, I, was really tired. I think I have the flu or something.” God, that sounded weak.

  “Are you trying to bullshit me?”

  “What? No, of course—”

  In the background he heard Alhad’s distant voice—“Is that Marty?”—and then louder through the phone: “Marty, what’s wrong?”

 
“Nothing’s wrong. I was just, like, tired and I think I have a flu.”

  “Flu? You sure that’s it? You didn’t answer our texts.”

  “I was asleep most of the day.”

  “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Yeah, much better.”

  “Great, then get your ass down here.”

  The phone was returned to Steph. “Guess you can’t weasel out today,” she said.

  Marty tried a friendly laugh that came out awkward. “Yeah, I’ll see you soon, I guess.”

  Click. “Ah, shit.”

  “What happened?” Abbi asked.

  “I have to go to work.”

  WALKING INTO CHESTER’S felt like the walk of shame. Joe gave him the stink eye the entire time. Marie—one of the other waiters—looked at him like something stuck to her shoe. Alhad hovered around Marty while he put his apron on, asking a thousand questions—seemingly for his own reassurance that everything was alright.

  Marty got situated at his station, the sink drain staring back at him.

  Steph bumped his shoulder. “We’re all going to see a movie later, you should come.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, still kind of tired.”

  Steph ran her fingers through her hair and gave Marty a tight-lipped “Okay” before leaving the kitchen.

  Soap up, swish-swish, rinse, repeat. An extravagant six hours for the new ghost hunter in town.

  HANDS WRIST DEEP in spit scrubbing, Marty couldn’t figure out why the in-betweener was doing any of this. Did he have some kind of plan? More and more it seemed like the actions of a rabid animal, with no intention other than to lash out.

  Were the ghost victims connected in any way? Marty didn’t know how to find out, but he doubted it. From what Abbi had heard, the person that Carla referred to as ‘the shambler’ was a roving, reasonless danger.

  Who was the in-betweener? Marty hadn’t thought to ask himself before. If he could figure out who he was in life, then maybe he could figure out what he wanted in death.