by T. Strange
Chapter Six
Hamilton dropped Harlan off at his apartment building, then peeled out, tires squealing, almost before the car door had closed. Reaching into his pocket, Harlan felt the familiar, sharp-edged bulk of the broken keychain he still hadn’t replaced. Running a thumb over the cracked side, he felt the edges beginning to wear smooth. Maybe he’d keep it.
He hadn’t complained about the tricky lock, either. It was almost a way of keeping his apartment a little more secure from the outside world—except, of course, from the neighbour who’d shown him the trick in the first place.
Still buoyed up by Hamilton’s unexpected show of affection—or at least that was how Harlan chose to interpret it—Harlan nodded a friendly acknowledgment to the lobby repeater, even though she wasn’t aware of him. He ignored the bewildered look thrown his way by a woman leaving the building, when Harlan greeted the apparently empty air but not her.
Harlan decided to think of a name for the repeater. Libby, maybe. He snorted, groaning at his own terrible idea. Libby from the Lobby. Lobby Libby. Right.
He should feel like shit, and he knew it. He’d failed so spectacularly that the police had brought in another team to do his fucking job, and the other medium had been less powerful than him. He’d been able to feel that, but not to see the fucking ghost the first time. What was wrong with him? He wished the solution was as simple as the one Hamilton had suggested—drink some tea. Balance his aura. Fuck.
It wasn’t until he reached his apartment, key in hand, that he realized what had just happened. He ran back downstairs, fortunately not encountering anyone—the advantage to taking the stairs rather than the elevator—praying that Libby would still be there. Apparently, the stupid name had stuck.
There she was—pace, nervous nail biting, step, step, flicker. Repeat.
He could see her.
He could see her!
Waiting until she was clear of the door so he could pass without walking through her, he ran outside. For the first time in his life, he went in search of ghosts. They were everywhere, just the way they always were—a sparkle here, a crushed skull there, but he could see all of them.
He forced himself to stop, to breathe, to look at this logically. What was the same, and what was different? He was alone. Hamilton wasn’t with him, but he’d seen ghosts when Hamilton was around before, of course, so that was unlikely to be the problem.
The policewoman and her medium? Again, he had no reason to believe the psychic had been lying. What did that leave? The location? Ghosts being spread unevenly, it was hard to test, but Harlan couldn’t think of an unwarded building where he’d never been able to see a ghost before.
His shoulders slumped, and he started trudging back to the apartment. He’d felt so close to an answer, but he couldn’t think of any other…
Charles.
Of course. That was the only other variable. Charles had been there both times, and Harlan hadn’t been able to see a ghost on either occasion. He didn’t know why Charles would affect only him and not the other medium. Hell, he didn’t even know why, if he was correct, Charles had an effect on him in the first place, but it was the only other variable he could think of.
Wildly relieved that he at least had something to go on, he flagged down a passing taxi, which miraculously stopped. His luck was holding. He couldn’t remember the address of the dungeon, and he didn’t want to describe the place he was looking for, but he remembered the name of a street it was close to. The cabby was happy to accommodate his uncertainty. If they had to circle the block a few times, it meant a larger fare for him. Finally, Harlan spotted the alley and directed the cab driver to turn.
He hopped out of the car, completely forgetting he had to pay, then he realized he didn’t have any money on him, anyway. He didn’t have time for this, and the cab driver was shouting at him…
The door to the dungeon opened and there was Charles.
He looked surprised to see Harlan, naturally. The other medium had almost certainly cleared the ghost, and what would a fuck-up psychic be doing here again, but he only raised an eyebrow and took a quick assessment of the situation. Shooting Harlan a brief smile that brought him back from the brink of hyperventilating, Charles dug his worn, brown-leather wallet out of the back pocket of his equally worn jeans, pulled out twenty dollars and handed it to the red-faced cabby, who promptly drove off.
“Hey,” Charles said, tucking away his wallet.
Harlan squeaked in response, cleared his throat, tried again. “Hey.” Brilliant. Fuck.
“I’m guessing you’re here for one of two reasons. Either you’re wondering why you couldn’t see the ghost when the other psychic could, or”—he grinned—“you liked what you saw down there and you couldn’t stop thinking about it.” Looking Harlan up and down in a hungry way that Harlan had witnessed directed at other people, read about, but never personally experienced, Charles said, “Personally, I’m hoping it’s the second option.”
The words, that look, went straight to Harlan’s dick. He blushed, shaking his head. “N-no, nothing like that. I mean, yes. The first.” Just the first. Right.
There was a look of disappointment so brief that Harlan might have imagined it, then Charles nodded. “C’mon downstairs, then.” He propped the door open for Harlan, who did his best to ignore the ominous sound of the heavy door clicking back into place behind them.
Trying to hurry without looking like he was fleeing, Harlan walked the now-familiar route through the bar, down the stairs and into the dungeon.
“I’ll be right down,” Charles called. “I was in the middle of taking out the trash when you got here.” That made it sound like Harlan had been expected, invited, hadn’t simply shown up unannounced and unwelcomed.
A little nervous to be down there alone, Harlan took a tentative step into the dungeon proper. Only a few lights were on, making the hulking shapes of the…equipment…look like prehistoric monsters lurking in the darkness.
Sparkle.
There, movement out of the corner of his eye. He whirled, came face-to-face with a bewildered-looking, uniformed ghost. It made no move to harm or even approach Harlan, but its sudden appearance startled a scream out of him.
Rapid footsteps coming down the stairs, then Charles was there and the ghost was gone. Not even the sparkle remained.
“What. The. Fuck,” Harlan whispered, echoing Hamilton’s earlier words. He stood there, blinking, while Charles asked what was wrong.
“Wait, wait, just…go back upstairs.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Charles asked.
“I’m fine, please, just…” Harlan made a shooing motion, his mind racing.
Casting him a final, doubtful look, Charles turned and went up the stairs.
Still nothing.
“Farther!” Harlan called, the mad rush of inspiration that had struck him making him bold. He heard the floorboards creak above him. “More! Go outside!” he demanded. As soon as the steel door clicked shut behind Charles…sparkle.
Ghost.
Harlan ran upstairs after Charles, throwing open the door and almost hitting the poor man with it. He grabbed Charles’ shoulders, shaking him a little—not that it did much. Charles was shorter but far outweighed him. “It’s you!”
Charles carefully peeled Harlan’s hands off his arms one at a time, frowning. “You’re scaring me a little. Let’s get you inside, give you some water…”
Harlan waved a hand dismissively, pacing in tiny circles between Charles and the door. “It’s you. It’s something about you.”
“Look… If you aren’t going to explain what’s going on, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, okay?” Charles spoke in the calm, slow manner people used with the mentally unstable, and that snapped Harlan out of his reverie.
Breathe in, slow. Breathe out, slower.
Of course Charles thought he was crazy, and if he ever wanted him to think otherwise, he had to calm down and explain himself now. “The ghost i
s still down there.”
Charles nodded. “Yeah. The woman they brought in said she needed…I don’t know, something…before she could get rid of it. She’s coming back tomorrow—another night I have to be closed.” He shrugged. “At least I’m getting lots of cleaning done.”
Harlan shook his head, wildly. “No. No, I can get rid of him right here, right now. I just need you to stay here.” He hoped. None of this made sense, and he was running off instinct, but it felt right. “Stay here. I’ll come back up when I’m done.”
Charles blinked. “Well. I guess it can’t hurt to try. I’d still have to wait until tomorrow to open, when the place has been officially cleared, but…”
Barely acknowledging that Charles had spoken, Harlan slipped inside and hurried down the stairs.
The ghost was still standing in the same spot Harlan had first seen him, looking forlorn. “Hey. I was hoping you’d come back. You can see me, right?” He waved.
“I can see you.”
“You were here yesterday too, but you couldn’t see me then.”
“That’s right. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I just thought it was kinda odd, because”—he frowned—“it felt like you should’ve been able to see me. Does that make sense?”
“It does, actually.” Harlan was in too much of a rush to explain the supernatural semantics, what he thought was going on here. “Do you know you’re— Do you know what happened to you?” Still, impatience was no excuse to be rude.
The ghost nodded. “I died. Right over there.” He pointed to the floor a few feet away, and Harlan automatically turned. It looked just like the rest of the floor. It had always bothered Harlan a little that no one could just tell, by looking, where a human had died. That the deaths didn’t leave a trace on their surroundings. On the other hand, the world would have gotten pretty full of traces.
“I’m sorry.”
The man tried to look nonchalant, but his expression was miserable.
“Do you know why you’re still here?”
He stared down at his translucent, ergonomic shoes. “I’m worried people will think I’m a freak because I died here.”
“You… They won’t. I’m sure…” Harlan wasn’t sure he believed himself. “Is that what’s keeping you here?”
He nodded. “I don’t want my kids finding out about this when they’re older, being teased at school…”
Ugh. Harlan could see—sort of—where the man was coming from, though he found it a little odd that the man seemed more concerned about how he’d died than the fact that he was dead. He also wasn’t sure how to deal with this, how to prove to the man that wasn’t how he’d be remembered.
“Wait here a second. I’ll be right back. I promise.”
The man stepped forward, looking for an instant like he might try and stop Harlan, but he just nodded.
Harlan hurried up the stairs, through the bar and out into the alley, but the door wouldn’t open all the way. He pushed again, harder, almost falling on his face when it swung freely.
“Ow,” Charles said wryly, rubbing his arm.
“Sorry!”
Charles laughed. “Well, I probably shouldn’t have been standing right in front of it. What’s up?”
“Do you have today’s newspaper?”
“You’re joking, right? I mean, I guess I could look it up on my phone.”
Harlan shook his head. “I think it has to be a real—physical—one.”
Charles’ eyes narrowed for a moment while he studied Harlan’s face. “There’s a store just up the street that I think sells papers. You want me to go get one?”
“Please? It’s important, and I promise I’ll explain after.” He had to restrain himself from giving Charles a little push to send him on his way, but he didn’t want to leave the ghost alone long enough that he might think Harlan had abandoned him.
Charles sighed. “All right. I’m taking a lot on faith here.”
Harlan nodded vigorously. “I know, and I really appreciate it.”
“I’ll be right back.” Charles jogged slowly up the alley, seeming to have picked up on some of Harlan’s urgency.
Harlan returned to the dungeon, feeling oddly ashamed by the open look of relief on the ghost’s face. “What’s your name?” He was only slightly fonder of—and better at—small talk with the dead than the living.
“Chris. Chris Kijeck.” He held out a hand, then frowned at it. “Can you…? Can I?”
“I can shake hands with you, because I’m a medium, but it’s…uncomfortable for me.”
“Sorry.” Chris withdrew his hand.
“No problem.” A few moments of semi-uncomfortable silence. What was taking Charles so long?
No.
It had only been a few minutes since Charles had left. It just felt like forever.
“No offense, but that cop who was with you, your partner, seems like kind of an ass.”
That startled a laugh out of Harlan. “Yes, yes, he does.”
Chris elbowed Harlan in the side, his arm sinking in a few inches. Harlan did his best not to flinch or gasp at the icy cold filling his chest. “You shouldn’t put up with that. You deserve better, man.”
“Thanks.”
Luckily, he was spared having to talk more about Hamilton by the outer door opening and Chris vanishing as soon as Charles stepped inside. He came downstairs and handed over the newspaper with a snap. “Need anything else?”
Harlan shook his head, eager to get this over with.
“Do mediums usually need newspapers for this kind of thing? Is that what the other medium was missing?”
Harlan laughed again. “No, not really.” He stared at Charles as pointedly as he could without being rude, especially because he was standing in a building Charles owned.
“You need me to go back outside?” Charles guessed, looking resigned.
“Yes, please. I’ll come up and get you when I’m done.”
“All right. It’s a good thing you’re cute.”
Harlan hoped his blush would fade before Charles made it into the alley and Chris snapped back into view—although, from what Chris had said earlier, it sounded like he’d always been able to see Harlan, even when Harlan couldn’t see him. Shit.
Still… Charles thought he was cute?
As soon as he heard the door shut above them, Chris reappeared.
“You have a sudden craving for news?” He sounded a little peeved.
Ignoring him for the moment, Harlan flipped through the newspaper. He got to the end without seeing what he was looking for, but it had to be there, didn’t it? Aha—obituaries. He ran a finger down the page. There. “Christopher William Kijeck?”
“Yeah?”
He read through the block of text quickly, then shook his head. “Nothing about where or how you died. Just ‘beloved husband’ and ‘loving father of two’.”
“Let me see.” Chris held out his hand for the paper and Harlan automatically handed it to him, both of them laughing when it drifted to the floor.
Harlan bent and picked it up, holding it so Chris could read.
Chris nodded, apparently satisfied. “Okay. Thanks so much for doing this for me.”
“It’s my job. I mean, you’re welcome.”
“Can you see that?” Chris asked, staring at something behind Harlan.
“Yeah.” Harlan didn’t have to turn to know what Chris was talking about. A rend in the veil between life and…whatever came after. He knew it wouldn’t look the same to him as it did to Chris. “Go on.”
“It’s good?”
“It’s good,” Harlan agreed. He watched Chris go through the portal to ‘the other side’, then walked back upstairs.
Flushed with success, Harlan pushed the door open again—more carefully this time. Charles was still standing in the alley, waiting for him.
“He’s gone. The ghost is gone.” Instead of stopping there, Harlan blurted, “Come home with me.”
Charles laughed. “Look
… I’m grateful that you sent the ghost packing, but I’m not…”
Now Harlan was blushing again. “No. No, it’s not like that! I just need you to… I have a theory that…”
After a long, assessing glance, Charles said, “Fine. Where do you live?”
“I, uh, don’t have a car…” Harlan scuffed at a large stone embedded in the alley pavement. He didn’t even have a driver’s license.
“Ah. All right, well, I should’ve figured that out when you showed up in a taxi. I guess I’ll get my car…if you trust me to drive you.”
Harlan’s internal response was an immediate, visceral Yes! He wasn’t sure why. He hardly knew Charles, and he wasn’t usually this trusting of anyone, even people he’d known for years. For all he knew, Charles had killed the deliveryman who’d died in the dungeon and was planning to kill Harlan next. But Harlan’s body trusted Charles, even if his mind had doubts.
He forced himself to pause, to look as though he were considering the offer.
He’d opened his mouth to agree when something else occurred to him. Something strange and unprecedented was going on with his power, something that had never happened outside a ghost-warded room, something he’d never read or even heard about, and by all appearances, it centred around this man. If he spent too much time with Charles, would he lose his powers permanently?
Charles didn’t feel at all threatening, but Harlan was suddenly leery of being alone in a car with him.
On the other hand, he’d been alone with the man in a literal dungeon. Charles could easily have grabbed him, strapped him down to one of those mysterious, bulky contraptions, and…and…Harlan didn’t even know, really. He scowled at his sudden, unwelcome erection.
Charles laughed, sounding uncertain for the first time. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to scare you. I understand if you don’t want a ride from a guy you just met.” He reached out and lightly touched Harlan’s hand—the first time they’d come into physical contact.
Harlan half-expected to feel something like an electric shock, a tingle at least, but there was nothing. Well, nothing but warm, rough skin on his own much paler, softer hand, and that was almost more extraordinary. He imagined he could feel Charles’ pulse everywhere their hands touched, an answering beat throbbing through his groin.