Three Stories About Ghosts

by Matthew Marchitto

  He was submerged, writhing, throbbing flesh pushing on him from all sides. His chest seized. He was suffocating, dying.

  “Breathe,” Abbi said.

  He did, and found the air heavy and moist, but filling his lungs all the same.

  “Don’t stop moving, don’t step backwards. Just keep following me.” He could see Abbi’s form beyond the pressing blisters. She was distorted and shadowed, but still there, just a few feet ahead of him.

  The walls pressed, forcing Marty to slog through the sinuous goo. It parted just enough to let him through, but still squeezed. He tightened his grip on Abbi’s hand and reminded himself to breathe.

  A raking at his shoulder.

  “Don’t look,” Abbi said.

  But Marty turned his head, and through the flesh wall saw a black clawed hand pawing at him. He recoiled, trying to back away, but only pressed himself further into the meat wall.

  Abbi quickened her pace, pulling him along faster and faster, too fast. Marty lost his grip, Abbi’s hand slipping out of his.

  The claws groped at his shoulders, grabbed handfuls of his clothes, and started to pull him toward them. He cried out, “Abbi!” But the throbbing flesh muffled his call. The hands hauled him into the wall, blisters popping and reforming against his body, each sickening squelch making him nauseous.

  A pale hand reached through and grabbed hold of his hoodie. “I’ve got you,” Abbie said. “I won’t let you go, but you need to step forward.”

  The black hands were clawing and pulling at Marty, holding him still, threatening to drag him deeper. “I can’t.”

  “You can. One step, and then another. I’m not letting go.”

  He was afraid to move, any step threatening to shatter his precarious balance, letting the hands overpower him and drag him deep into hellish flesh.

  One step. Marty’s leg moved like it was being forced through sludge. He felt his foot touch concrete. Abbi’s outline was clearer now, her brow creased. And then another. Marty’s limbs were heavy under the wall’s pressure, but finally he broke free, stepping into the same space as Abbi.

  She led him forward, hand still gripping his hoodie. “I’m not letting go.”

  And a minute later Marty stepped out into open air, gasping as he breathed in.

  Abbi stared upward, and Marty followed her gaze. The ghost flesh had spread in a lopsided circle, cutting off this small area from the rest of the city.

  “He has to be here,” Marty said.

  A keening wail filled the alley, joined by a dozen others. It was a guttural cry of pain, primal in its terror. Its shrill shriek was inhuman.

  Marty and Abbi walked forward, slowly, tentatively. They saw the first creature around the corner, its body pressed against a wall as though it could retreat within the bricks. The monstrosity wailed, its hundred eyes bloodshot and twitching. As they walked by it, it shrunk within itself like a deflated ball. Its keening wails became wet whimpers.

  There were two more in the street. One vomited innards, and Marty dipped his head behind a car to empty his stomach.

  When he turned back, Abbi’s eyes were trained on something down the street. “He’s there,” she said.

  Thunder cracked, and the roiling inky black clouds lit up with red flashes of lightning. In the light Marty saw a dozen shapes twisting on the ground. He and Abbi approached slowly, walking past the shrieking mounds of flesh. They were concentrated in a small courtyard between buildings, slurping and sloping on the ground, their distention slapping the pavement.

  Sitting in the middle of the courtyard, his head in his hands, was McKinsey—the in-betweener.

  Marty gestured for Abbi to stay back: one touch from McKinsey would turn her into one of those monstrosities. He reached into his backpack and drew the shark tooth dagger, clutching it until his knuckles turned white. He walked forward, stepping around the shrieking globs of flesh.

  McKinsey raised his head from his hands, eyes going wide with anger at the sight of Marty. “You fucking shit. You little fucking shit. You think you’re going to fix this?” He gestured to his victims, to the roiling black clouds. “You don’t understand anything.”

  He got to his feet and marched back and forth, his eyes trained on Marty. “I can hear them, you understand? Whispers coming from the deep. You don’t know what it’s like, you don’t know how it is. I don’t have anything, you little fucking shit. I don’t fucking have anything. I never have.” Spittle ran down his chin, his eyes bloodshot.

  “And so it’s worth all this? Pain and screaming and torture. It’s worth it because what? Because you never got out of your parents’ house?”

  “You keep your fucking mouth shut.”

  “Was it really that bad, John? Was it really worth getting this angry?”

  McKinsey’s hands balled into fists. “You don’t fucking know. Understand? You just don’t. I had nothing, I died with nothing. With nobody. I clean other people’s shit and all I got for it was nothing, fucking nothing.”

  “Is that why your brother is taking care of your stuff now? Because you had nothing, because you had no one?”

  The veins in McKinsey’s neck bulged, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “Why him, eh? Why the fuck does he get to have every-fucking-thing while I clean piss and shit. He didn’t deserve it, he didn’t fucking deserve anything. No one does, no one gets it. You fucking fuck.”

  Marty was getting closer, walking slowly. Fifteen feet away, twelve, ten…

  “You think you’re some kind of hero? Some kind of good guy? You’re just another piece of shit living in a shitty apartment like the fucking scumbag motherfucker you are.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, John. You’re hurting people and you won’t stop. So I’m going to stop you.”

  “It’s going to happen to you. I know it will, I can see it. You think you’re going to be somebody, but you’re a nobody, just like me. And when it comes, you’re going to cling just like I am. You’re going to understand then, you’re going to see what happens.” McKinsey’s face went red, his eyes wide, his words tinged with untamed rage. “Come on and fucking do it, fucking try.”

  Marty lunged, dagger upraised.

  McKinsey caught his wrist, Marty grabbed McKinsey’s shirt, and the two of them grappled with each other. Marty trying to force the dagger into McKinsey’s flesh, McKinsey trying to wrap one grasping hand around Marty’s throat. They pushed and shoved to the sonorous screeching of the tormented around them. Thunderclaps beat like war drums as lightning painted them red.

  Spittle ran down McKinsey’s chin as guttural, rasping grunts hissed from between his teeth. Marty’s back and arms ached, his muscles tensing, trying to push the dagger just close enough to McKinsey’s flesh.

  The sounds of a tree trunk snapping, tendons tearing, and wet plops of meat hitting the ground followed by twisting steel and squealing tires. A black van burst from the wall of ghost flesh, skidding to a halt at the courtyard’s edge. The doors opened, Cavanagh and Beaulieu barrelling forward.

  Oh no.

  McKinsey twirled Marty around, holding him like a shield. “You want me, then you have to go through—”

  Cavanagh pointed her gun at Marty and pulled the trigger. Searing pain tore through his bicep, and McKinsey let him go, reeling with a cry of surprise. Marty fell to his knees, staring at the blood trickling down his arm. He felt dizzy; even more nauseous.

  Beaulieu stood over Marty, gun pointed at his chest. Cavanagh ran past them; in her hands was a wooden spear with a stone blade protruding from a skull’s open jaw. Its eyes glowed red with each lightning strike.

  Cavanagh’s hand outstretched trying to grab McKinsey, and Beaulieu’s head turned away from Marty to watch. Behind him, he heard Abbi calling his name, before her voice was drowned out by the shrieking monsters.

  Marty lunged at Beaulieu’s knees. He cried out, falling over. Before he could right himself Marty was running for Cavanagh, hoping she wouldn’t stick him like a pig on a spit
.

  McKinsey caught Marty’s eyes, and he smiled a knowing smile that seemed to say, you’ll do the same as me.

  Ignoring the searing pain from his bicep, Marty wrapped his arms around Cavanagh’s waist, the entire weight of his body forcing her off balance. She stumbled, falling to the ground, giving McKinsey a chance to run. “You idiot!”

  Marty chased after the fleeing in-betweener, reaching out his injured arm and clutching McKinsey’s shirt, pulling him to the ground. He raised his shark tooth dagger.

  “Please, Marty, don’t do this to me. Please.” Tears streaked down McKinsey’s cheeks, terror in his eyes.

  Marty plunged the shark tooth dagger into McKinsey’s chest, feeling the sickening way it grated on rib and sank into the meat underneath. Marty let go of the blade and staggered backward.

  For a moment, McKinsey didn’t move, staring at the hilt protruding from his chest. A crack of thunder and a flash of red that hung in the air like bloody mist. The Boneman stood behind McKinsey, his arms outstretched like a puppeteer. The in-betweener turned, a strangled cry escaping his throat when he saw who was there.

  The Boneman flicked his wrist, and McKinsey’s arm struck out, ramrod straight. Another flick, and McKinsey’s other arm followed suit. The Boneman spread his hands, and McKinsey’s arms pulled in opposite directions, stretching his torso wide. Tears streaked his cheeks; he was begging, pleading, anything but this.

  The Boneman twirled his hand, and McKinsey’s back bent at the waist with a sickening crack as his spine broke. The Boneman’s long skeletal fingers slid between McKinsey’s ribs, and he splayed open McKinsey’s chest like a boiled lobster.

  McKinsey’s cries were wet and guttural, burning his throat raw as they were lost among the shrieks of the monstrosities. The Boneman tore out McKinsey’s heart, arteries snapping. With a delicate wave of his wrist, the heart disappeared.

  A flash of lightning, and McKinsey’s body thudded to the ground. Marty blinked, and there was nothing there but a red smear. The Boneman was gone.

  Then the blood loss hit him, and Marty fainted.

  Chapter Ten

  Overcast

  BLEARY-EYED, MARTY took in the room. A hospital bed, an IV drip, some monitors, no other beds. Fancy, I get my own room. Marty struggled to get up, and a pale hand eased him down. He realized the cart in the corner filled with guts wasn’t his. Abbi smiled at him.

  “You’re fine,” Abbi said. “I think they’re going to let you out in a day or so.”

  “Where—”

  Abbi shushed him. “There’s a meathead outside the door. He can’t see me though.” She smiled. “I’ve been eavesdropping. They’re going to get the record wiped so nobody knows you were ever shot.”

  “Goodie.”

  She shushed him again. “Cavanagh and Beaulieu brought you here in one of their vans, and you should’ve heard them. I thought they were going to shoot each other. Apparently, you’re a pain in the ass.”

  “And McKinsey?”

  “Gone, just… gone.”

  The door opened, and the meathead peeked in. “You awake?”

  Marty groaned. “Yeah.”

  “Don’t be a baby about it, it’s just a bullet. You’re staying for a couple days and then I’m taking you home.” He closed the door.

  “Friendly,” Marty said.

  “Yeah, well, shit almost hit the fan.”

  “I’m pretty sure it did hit it a couple times.” Marty propped himself on his elbow, the one that didn’t hurt. “And what happened to all the”—he waved his hand—“stuff.”

  “Check the news.”

  Marty reached over to the corner table and grabbed his phone. Local news sites were already reporting a large fire due to an “unusual weather phenomenon.”

  “So they burned it all?” Marty asked.

  “Pretty much. Although,” Abbi fidgeted, “they loaded those monster-things into their vans. I can’t think why.”

  Marty didn’t want to think about it either. Instead he thumbed through the messages on his phone. Forty-eight missed calls, mostly from Steph, a couple from his parents. He opened his messages, and immediately felt like shit. From Steph:

  Just fucking answer me.

  Marty please

  Marty?

  Why the fuck did you do it?

  Marty.

  And so it went. Marty typed I’m fine, and then deleted it. It felt insufficient, and he didn’t want to try explaining anything. Instead he set his phone face down on the corner table.

  “I guess this means we won?” Marty said.

  “I guess. It doesn’t feel like it.”

  They were silent for a time, until Marty said, “I’m fucking hungry.”

  Abbi laughed.

  The door opened, and the meathead peered in. “You say something?”

  “No.”

  He grumbled and closed the door.

  Out the window Marty could see that the roiling black clouds were gone. Instead, the sky was simply overcast, rain pitter-pattering on the window. That’s it, I did what the Boneman wanted, I’m free. He’d fulfilled his contract, signed in blood, and now the Boneman had no hold over him. Never again, he promised himself. Only now was the memory of walking the flesh passage coming back to him, of Wallace wailing in the hallway. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

  “Marty?”

  “Hmm.”

  “You said you did it because you wanted to help people, is that, well, is it true? Or were you just scared?”

  “I mean, sure I was scared, but of course I meant it. Why wouldn’t I want to help people?”

  “Well, you know, we’re ghosts. Already dead. Why would you want to help us?”

  “We’re friends, aren’t we? We help each other, that’s, like, a thing.”

  Abbi smiled, brushing hair behind her ear. “Yeah, we’re friends.”

  MARTY, CARLA, AND Abbi sat in their corner on the second floor of Second Cup. Marty sipped a latte, as did Abbi, and Carla had a steaming cup of tea. The burned-face barista who served them seemed to be in better spirits, all the ghosts did. Like a weight had been lifted off their shoulders.

  The living were hushed and morose, talking to each other in low whispers and casting nervous glances over their shoulder to the sounds of honking cars or police sirens.

  “Fucking clouds, really?” Marty said.

  Carla chuckled. “I suppose it’s more believable.”

  The story that had been trotted out by news sites and television pundits was that the whole incident was a unique weather phenomenon. The amorphous ghost flesh a result of ‘low lying cloud formations.’

  “It’s a load of fucking shit, are you kidding me? Fucking clouds.”

  “Would you believe that it was hell-spawned goo?” Abbi asked.

  “There’s video!” Albeit, grainy footage with poor light from the storm clouds.

  “This is easier for people to understand,” Carla said. “They need to reconcile with it, make it sensible. Otherwise, they won’t be able to handle it.”

  The worst part was when people started arguing about it online. Anybody who brought up the idea that it might not be natural was shouted down as a conspiracy nut. They usually got bombarded with images of the ancient alien guy with captions like clouds, they’re made by aliens.

  “It’s only been four days and nobody’s talking about it anymore,” Marty sighed. “I thought it’d have at least a week of staying power.” But everybody had moved on to the next viral story.

  “It’s probably better this way,” Abbi said.

  Marty ran a hand through his hair. His arm still ached, and it would take a while until it was healed, but he already felt better.

  “I think you have to go soon,” Carla said. “You don’t want to keep the boss waiting.”

  Marty groaned. The owner wanted to meet with him before Marty’s shift.

  “You think he’s going to be mad?” Abbi asked.

  “I don’t know. I hope not, but I can’t blame
him if he is.”

  Carla patted Marty’s hand. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  Ugh.

  Carla started to get up. “I could use a refill.”

  “I can get it for you.” Abbi gestured for her to stay seated.

  Carla shooed her away. “I can do it myself, and it gives me an excuse to chat up that barista boy.” Carla shuffled around the table, taking the stairs slowly, one at a time.

  Marty and Abbi sat in silence, both looking out the window and watching people walk by. There’d been a question nagging at the back of Marty’s mind.

  “Before, when we were talking about ghosts from the deep making deals, I asked if they’d ever approached you.”

  Abbi hugged herself. “Does it matter?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  A silence stretched between them, one that felt heavy. Finally, Abbi gesture to her cart piled with her innards. “They offered to get rid of that.”

  “They can do that?”

  “They can do a lot of things.”

  “And you said no?”

  Abbi leveled an annoyed stare at Marty. “You saw what making deals with the deep gets you. It’s not worth it.”

  “Right, yeah. Of course.”

  Abbi rocked her cart back and forth with a toe. “Anyway, I like my cart.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  THE OWNER—MORDECAI—was seven feet tall and nearly as wide. His stomach poured onto the desk, and even sitting down he had to hunch to keep his head from hitting the low-hanging light. He shuffled the myriad of papers on his desk and furrowed his comically bushy eyebrows at Marty.

  “You hurt your arm?” Mordecai asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you had to go to the hospital for it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And they kept you for a few days, because you hurt your arm?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was it broken?”

  “No.”

  The creases in Mordecai’s face deepened. “So then why did you have to go to the hospital?”