Three Stories About Ghosts

by Matthew Marchitto

  “I’m starting to regret this. But, shit, kid, nobody else cares.” Gil stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Cavanagh and Beaulieu aren’t on your side, not really. You’re an inconvenience, something hampering them from putting McKinsey down. It’d be easier with that dagger, but we have our ways of doing things. That means you’re on a timer, kid. Cavanagh’s decided it’s not worth chasing you around for the dagger. They’re going to brute force McKinsey into the afterlife. Good for us, good for ghosts, good for the city. Bad for you.”

  “So, you’re the only one on my side?”

  “I’m not on your side. I’m here to tell you that McKinsey’s hanging around downtown, don’t know why.” Gil started to walk away. “Good luck, Marty. I hope you find him before we do.”

  Gil hopped the fence and sauntered down the lane.

  Why was the in-betweener roaming downtown? Maybe Abbi had some clues. He’d go see her in the morning. He also wanted to make sure she was alright. And Carla, and the half-face guy who sold them tea, and everybody else he saw walking the streets.

  The back door opened, and Izzy poked her head out. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

  “I’m fine.” Marty walked up the concrete steps, letting his mother usher him inside the house.

  “I can make you more coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She frowned, wiping her hands on a towel. “And how’s work?”

  “The same.”

  “Meet anyone new?”

  Translation: Am I getting grandkids soon? “No.”

  “You’re not very talkative.”

  Marty shrugged. In the background Pat’s snoring filled the house like off-key industrial music. “How’re you and Dad?”

  She waved her hands dismissively. “The same old.”

  “He still getting on your ass about everything?”

  “He’s stressed.”

  “Right.”

  The conversation petered out from there, and Marty excused himself and trudged up the stairs to his childhood room. Whiskers curled up next to him on his bed. And for the first time in the last couple of days, he dreamed of nothing.

  UNTIL HE FOUND himself standing in the middle of a field of black waist-high grass. The sky burned red, the sun a dark-veined dot of orange, the mountains jagged scabs. He heard the Boneman’s voice, felt it like the caress of a breeze.

  “He has broken it,” the Boneman said. “The space between us and you is widening, stretching, consuming. It cannot. This will destroy your world, Marty. It will upend mine. It is unacceptable.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “You’ve failed twice. Once more and the consequence will be unbearable.”

  “I know where he is. I’m going to find him.”

  “Marty, you cannot fail, or there will be nothing left of you.”

  The voice whispered behind him. He turned instinctively, and his heart hammered in his chest. Hanging from long-dead trees were bodies, flayed and carved and cut open. Marty’s eyes trailed the red meat that slopped out of them, the way the eyes stared at him, the way each face looked a mirror of his own.

  He woke with a strangled scream. Whiskers mewled at him, rolling over. It was morning, but his room was dark, the sky overcast, and a pitter-patter of rain slapped his window.

  Marty reminded himself to breathe, just breathe.

  Chapter Nine

  Closing In

  “WHAT DID YOU do?” Abbi kicked her cart at him. It banged against his shins.

  “Ow.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. Well, maybe something. I was trying to help.”

  “And?”

  “The in-betweener wanted something from his dad, a pocketknife or whatever, and then he’d go willingly. So, uh, I got it for him and he bailed on me.”

  Abbi glared at him. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.” Marty pulled up his hood. He was standing on a corner just off St. Catherine, and people were staring at the guy talking to himself. He was glad most folks had their heads down and shoulders hunched against the rain.

  “I don’t even know what that means.” Abbi paced around her cart, her intestines looping around themselves. “I mean, you gave him a physical object, and he kept it? I… I don’t know what that means.”

  “Is that not normal?”

  “It’s really not normal. When you said the Boneman gave you something, I thought it was just because he was from the deep, I didn’t—ah shit Marty. I think this is really bad.”

  “Like how bad?” A thunderclap boomed, and ten seconds later there was a flash of red lightning, illuminating the entire sky. “Is lightning supposed to be red?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  “That BOA guy, what did he tell you?”

  “Just that the in-betweener was roaming downtown, I don’t know why or where.”

  “Things are tense here, and nobody’s talking about it. Everybody’s spooked and no one wants to admit it. There’s a lot of us who hang around here, and I’m starting to see people freak out.”

  “Have you seen Carla? She always knows what’s going on.”

  “I’ve…” Abbi wrapped an intestine around her finger, and then unwrapped and rewrapped it, “I’ve been freaked out too, okay. I haven’t been going far from the café.”

  “I don’t get it. Freaked out how?”

  “It’s just in the air, Marty. I can feel something bad. Like I’m being watched by a wolf.”

  “Okay, okay.” Marty paced in a small circle. “The BOA is after him too, so we have to find him before they do. We go to Carla and get all the gossip we can, and then… I don’t know. We’ll look around or something.” Marty brushed his hand through his hair, grabbing and pulling as he did so.

  “Maybe we should just let the BOA deal with it.”

  “Abbi, I signed a contract in blood. If the BOA deals with it, I’m going to get carved up.”

  Abbi rubbed her eyes. “Right, right. I’m sorry. You’re right. We can do this, we can do this.”

  “Um, I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  Abbi kicked her cart against his shins.

  “Ow.”

  “Let’s go find Carla.”

  THINGS WERE GETTING weird. The storm clouds overhead had turned a dark inky black, roiling like a sped-up video. Thunder cracked, red lightning following it, and each time the skyscrapers were bathed in a blood-red tinge.

  If Marty believed, he would’ve thought this was the end times.

  Carla was eating a bagel from a closed down bagel shop. There were no humans but a pair of ghosts still worked the ovens, a stack of blue-tinged bagels on their counter. The rain pattering on the windows was loud enough to hear inside the building.

  “It’s scary, you know,” Carla said between mouthfuls. “People are disappearing, and after Jean, well, we’re afraid to go looking.”

  “Something happened to Jean?” Abbi asked. She nibbled on a bagel, and Marty cast glances at her intestines, trying to see it travelling its digestive path. He couldn’t.

  Carla’s brows knit, her wrinkled face sagging. “He got turned. It was horrible, all screaming meat and the like. None of us have the stomach to go looking now, we’re all huddling in our corners.”

  “Where was this?” Marty asked.

  “Just around the corner on Crescent. You know how Jean likes to mill around with young people, makes him feel less old.” Carla stared off at nothing. “I guess I should say liked, he’s not around anymore.”

  Can ghosts die? Marty didn’t want to think about it.

  “Have there been others?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. Those black vans have been driving around like crazy, and all the live people are starting to ask questions and gather around with those phones to try and take pictures.”

  Marty took out his phone; he’d barely looked at it recently. Eighteen notifications from Steph and Alhad and oh, shit. A mi
ssed call from the owner. Marty decided not to listen to the twelve voicemails, and instead opened up his social media. He didn’t have to search hard—a bunch of hashtags were trending locally: monsters, aliens, Montréal Invasion. They all had posts of people scared, some freaking out, others making jokes (and people self-promoting stuff?) But when Marty went over to the local news sites, there was barely anything. The only mention was the police statement that there was nothing to be worried about, and to stay away from sick animals.

  “I guess we’re going to have to go looking for him,” Marty said.

  Carla puffed up her cheeks and harrumphed. “You are not. Whoever’s doing this is dangerous.”

  “I have to.” Marty got out of his seat. “Maybe you should stay here,” he said to Abbi.

  She shot him a scowl and started for the door.

  Marty was glad to not be doing this alone.

  MARTY AND ABBI crossed in the middle of the street, ignoring the car honking at him. Everything was dark, the inky black clouds making the store signs shine like beacons. Marty’s gaze darted to one side: he’d thought he saw something scurrying. Maybe it had been a mouse.

  The black vans were everywhere, parked on corners and driving amidst the traffic. Marty put his hood up and hunched his shoulders.

  Crescent was busy like always. The crowds pressed together, students ignored the rain. A pack of too-loud guys shouldered past Marty. There weren’t that many ghosts here. Usually they were sprinkled among the people, but now only a few pallid faces bobbed through the foot traffic.

  Near the lip of an alley a small crowd had gathered, their phones out. A gaggle of meatheads stood in their way. Marty and Abbi neared. Echoing between the buildings’ walls was a shrill, keening wail. Marty peered past the crowd and saw a wriggling tarp half concealed by a dumpster. He looked away. He knew what was under it. If he’d needed any more confirmation, Gil was loitering nearby.

  “This must be recent,” Marty said. “They haven’t hauled it away yet.”

  “So that means the in-betweener is nearby.”

  Where would John McKinsey go?

  Walking from behind the dumpster was Cavanagh: she cast a wary eye over the crowd.

  Marty’s eyes hit the floor. He hooked his arm around Abbi’s and dragged her away from the crowd.

  “What’s the—”

  “Cavanagh. BOA agent. Big. Scary.”

  Abbi looked over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Damn.”

  “Flirt later. If she’s here, then the in-betweener has to be nearby. The trail’s hot.”

  “Except we don’t know how to follow hot trails.”

  Marty brushed his hand through his hair, grabbing and pulling as he did so. I don’t know either.

  “What if we follow the BOA guys?”

  Marty looked over his shoulder. “That’d be risky.” But it’s the only chance we have. “Okay, but we have to stay out of sight, which includes you. I’m pretty sure they can see ghosts.”

  Marty and Abbi crossed the street then hunched near a car and kept their eyes on the alley. Cavanagh and Beaulieu were having a heated conversation. Both had bags under their eyes.

  Gil stared at the monstrosity, hands in his pockets. His gaze passed over the crowd and locked on Marty. Gil’s brows knit, his mouth a tight line; he needed to get it done or get out of the way.

  Marty’s eyes drifted away to the nearby wall. It was shimmering. The bricks rippled like water, and a thin membranous layer began to stretch. A silhouetted inhuman form pressed on the film, claws trying to carve through it. Another flash of lightning, a wash of red, and the wall was just ordinary brick again.

  “Did you see that?” Marty asked.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, never mind.”

  Cavanagh and Beaulieu left the alley, shoving past the crowd of gawkers. The meatheads remained on guard duty.

  Marty and Abbi followed at a distance, weaving around the pedestrians that were roaming the bars and restaurants for a place to unwind, or get drunk, or whatever. The BOA agents turned onto a quieter street. Marty and Abbi watched from the opposite corner, staying near a gathered crowd. Just beyond them were some orange traffic cones and a length of police tape. Marty could guess what was beyond the tape.

  “The in-betweener’s really been losing it lately. Was all this just today?” Marty asked.

  Abbi peered over Marty’s shoulder to see the orange cones. “Yeah. What’s wrong with him, Marty? Why would he want to do this?”

  “Ghost reasons?”

  “I’ve never seen someone this unstable. This shit is on a whole other level.”

  “Maybe they just didn’t have the power to do this.”

  Screams from down the street, and a surge of bodies tried to run in the opposite direction, pressing Marty against the wall as they pushed past.

  Marty turned to see a skyscraper writhing and bubbling over. Thick vivisected chunks of meat bulged from its windows, spilling onto the street. Cars squealed out of the way. The undulating hell-mass stretched right the way across the street, creating a wall of nightmare fifteen stories high.

  “Holy fucking shit.” Marty started backing away.

  A black van screeched to a halt. Cavanagh and Beaulieu jumped in and the van peeled away, toward the writhing mass.

  “That’s where he is,” Abbi said.

  Marty’s eyes followed the trail of meat at the hell-wall’s base. It spilled over the buildings, into the alley, and to the next street over: St. Catherine.

  “Oh fuck.” Realization dawned on Marty. “Oh fuck, oh fuck.”

  “What?”

  “That’s where Chester’s is.”

  “Oh no!”

  Marty shoved his way through the crowd, Abbi just behind him. He tripped on a foot and toppled halfway before Abbi shoved her cart forward in time to catch him. He went face first into wet, cold intestines. If he’d gone over in the surging crowd, he wouldn’t make it back up.

  Marty ran, huffing and puffing as he reached Chester’s back door. Overhead he could see the writhing blister-covered flesh seeping over the roof’s lip.

  He dashed inside in time to see Joe dart out the front door without looking back.

  “Steph? Alhad?” he called.

  “Help!” Steph called from the kitchen.

  Marty ran through the small storage room and into the kitchen, where piles of the flesh had spilled in through the windows. Alhad was trapped from the waist down under a mound of meat. Steph was trying to pull him out, but he was too heavy.

  “Oh fuck please fuck no please.” Alhad’s face was red, his voice tinged with terror.

  “Marty, help!” Steph had her arm hooked under Alhad’s armpit.

  Marty stumbled forward and hooked his arm under Alhad’s other pit. His heart hammered in his chest at being this close to the wall of flesh. Each rippling undulation sent electric pings of remembered pain through his body.

  Together, Marty and Steph pulled, dragging Alhad free of the mass. Alhad climbed to his feet and backed himself into a corner, his eyes trained on the wall of meat.

  “Out, out, everybody out,” Marty said. He had to push Alhad toward the back door.

  Alhad resisted, trying to run away from the door. And then Marty saw a thin layer of membranous film covering the back door. It was slowly thickening, the encroaching flesh solidifying. Over his shoulder, he saw that the front door was worse. Blisters like stacked boulders were wedged into the doorframe.

  Marty realized Abbi had followed him in. “We have to go through it,” she said.

  “I don’t think they can do it.”

  “They can, and I’ll help them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Who the fuck are you talking to?” Steph asked.

  Marty ignored her. “Okay, do it. I’ll be right behind.”

  “Marty?” Steph said, but then seemed to lose her train of thought. Abbi grabbed Steph’s arm and pulled her toward the back door. Steph started walking as th
ough of her own free will. She gripped Alhad’s wrist, pulling him along. “You’re going to be right behind us, right?”

  “Yeah,” Marty said.

  Abbi went cart first, the rusty metal parting the viscous film. It pressed all around Abbi, and then Steph who shivered, and finally Alhad. Marty had to push him to make him go the whole way. He could see them through the film, distorted but whole in the alley.

  He took a step forward, and remembered how it had felt when the walls were closing in on him. How they’d pushed him to his knees, threatened to smother him, consume him.

  “Marty, come on.” Abbi’s words were muffled through the thickening film.

  Marty took a deep breath that did little to still his hammering heart, and stepped into the film. A surge of revulsion tempted him to step back, but when his head entered the clear air of the alley, and he saw his friends waiting for him, he stepped through to the other side.

  Steph grabbed Marty’s arm and started to pull him toward the street.

  Abbi grabbed Marty’s other arm to hold him still. “Marty, I think the in-betweener is on the other side of this.”

  Marty’s head tilted, up and up and up. The flesh wall was higher now, casting a long shadow over them.

  “I can’t,” Marty said.

  “Can’t what?” Steph was yanking at his arm.

  “I can guide you through, Marty,” Abbi insisted.

  “We can go around, find another way.”

  “Marty what’s wrong with you?” Steph was smacking his arm, like trying to knock him out of a trance. “Come on.”

  “If we wait, the BOA will get to him first,” Abbi said.

  “Fuck.” Marty pulled free from Steph. “Fuck.”

  He took Abbi’s hand and let her lead him toward the wall.

  “Marty?” Steph was hysterical now, her words borderline screams. “Marty, what the fuck are you doing? Marty, stop! Please stop!”

  Abbi’s cart plunged into the mass, the vivisected tendons spreading just enough to press against all its edges. Then Abbi stepped into it, and Marty focused on the pale hand in his, leading him toward the undulating wall. As the flesh closed around his fingers, he wanted to pull away, to turn and run, but he kept stepping forward. He felt the pressure on his arm, his shoulder, his torso, and finally his head.