by T. Strange
The building maintenance man arrived first, carrying a door. It was metal, not solid wood like the old one and not nearly as attractive. Not that Harlan spent a lot of time contemplating his front door.
Leaning the new door against the wall in the hallway, the man whistled at the remains of the old one. “Holy shit. Must’ve been a hell of a ghost!”
Both men looked to Harlan to respond, but he didn’t know what to say.
“It was,” Charles answered for him. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I know it’s late.”
Within a few minutes, he’d removed the hinge pins and taken down the splintered wood that still hung from the hinges. He unlocked it—he had his own set of keys, which was good, because Harlan found himself reluctant to let anyone else handle his—and lowered the rest of the door to the ground.
“You got lucky.” He tapped the wooden doorframe. “Good, solid old building like this, the frame stood up to the beating. Doesn’t even need to be replaced.” He gathered up all the shattered pieces in the hallway, then stood the new door up in its place.
The hinges didn’t quite line up, so he moved the ones in the doorframe, using a small tool Harlan couldn’t identify to dig grooves into the wood so the hinges wouldn’t stick out. He had to do the same on the lock side.
The man caught Harlan watching and laughed. “It won’t be the prettiest with the old grooves still there, but it’ll do.”
He finished up and handed Harlan a key.
“What’s this for?”
“Different lock, different key. The old lock didn’t fit in this door, but I brought one with me, just in case.”
Harlan hoped his irrational disappointment didn’t show—after using it to fight off the ghost, he’d grown attached to his old key. He decided to keep it on his key ring.
The repairman locked and unlocked the door a few times, swinging it to make sure everything worked smoothly. He had Harlan unlock it from the hall, laughing when Harlan automatically pressed on the doorframe.
“Right, I forgot about that! Shouldn’t need to do that anymore.”
The door unlocked easily on the first try. Again, Harlan couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit disappointed that the door had lost even more of its character.
The police arrived just as the man finished gathering his tools and the shattered door. A uniformed officer murmured something to the repairman, who went white, nodded and set down his burden before leading her to the elevator. Probably looking for the man’s body, Harlan reasoned.
That left three more—another uniformed officer and two in plain clothes. The woman wore a badge, and the man had no identification.
Charles patted his thigh. “Well, I should probably…” He glanced at the door. “Just…promise you’ll call me. If you start feeling bad again,” he added, quickly. “Any time, day or night, I mean it. If I don’t hear from you, I’m calling tomorrow, and if you don’t answer, I’m coming over. And if you still don’t answer, I’ll break the door down. Again. Deal?”
“Deal,” Harlan agreed.
Charles nodded at the others on his way out, looking back at Harlan several times until the elevator doors closed behind him.
Harlan assumed the man was the medium, until he reached into his bag and pulled out a paintbrush and a jar of clear fluid. Harlan recognized the scent as soon as he opened it—the oil used for painting ghost-wards. Everyone had their own recipe, but the basic ingredients were similar enough for Harlan’s nose.
Ignoring the others, he knelt in front of the door and started painting.
Charles must have gotten out of range. The ghost snapped into existence, howling and diving at Harlan, clearly determined to continue where it had left off.
The woman’s nose wrinkled, as though she’d smelled something odd, besides the oil. “Wow! You really managed to piss off this ghost! It’s weird, though. It was totally ignoring you until just now.” Standing firm, she grabbed the ghost by the throat, her face twisting in pain.
Harlan grimaced sympathetically. He knew the bitter-cold agony of touching a ghost—which was worse with an aggressive one.
“Get. Out!” she growled, physically throwing the ghost at the nearest wall. If he’d still been in his body, it would have been impossible—he’d been much larger than her—and Harlan could see her straining, but it worked. A hole appeared behind the ghost, black and empty. With a final howl, the ghost disappeared. His fingertips tried to find purchase on the edges, but the medium stomped them with her booted foot and they let go. The hole closed behind him.
“Whew. That was a nasty one.”
Harlan wasn’t proud of himself for it, but he was a little glad to see beads of sweat dotting her forehead and that she was breathing heavily. She’d made it look so easy, and he was relieved it had actually been a struggle for her.
Her partner, who had stayed still and quiet throughout, gave her a questioning glance.
“I’m fine, Phillip.” She laughed, turning to Harlan. “What did you do to this guy?”
“I tried to unlock his door. Once. By accident.” He shrugged.
“Weird. Well, he’s gone now. Do you want us to stay until he’s done painting?” She inclined her head at the warder, who’d finished the door and was now reinforcing the damaged lines on either side of it.
Harlan shook his head. Now that the worst of his fear had passed and he felt safe again, he wanted to be as alone as possible, as soon as possible. One man who hadn’t said a word was infinitely preferable to three people.
She clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Happens to the best of us. Some of the stories I could tell… Phew, they would give you nightmares. But you don’t need that right now. I’m Beth. I’ve heard good things about you.”
Harlan squirmed, uncomfortable with the praise. Also, who would have been talking about him, never mind positively? Certainly not Hamilton.
Beth handed him her card. “If you ever need anything or just want to talk, call me.”
He took it and tucked it into his pocket, beside Charles’.
“It’d be nice to see more of you, when we’re not dealing with ghosts. The three of us—there are four police mediums in Toronto now, including you—like to get together every few weeks. You’re welcome to join us. You’ve already met Leo—and Benjamin’s nice.”
Leo must have been the woman he’d seen at Charles’ dungeon.
“Anyway. Let me know if you have any more trouble.” She twirled her forefinger and left, careful not to smudge the fresh oil on the door. Her partner followed her, giving Harlan a little nod of acknowledgment.
Half an hour later, the warder stood, stretched and capped his jar of oil. “Should be good to go now,” he said, the first words he’d spoken. “I’d like to come by next week and make sure everything’s holding up the way it should be.”
Harlan nodded. He’d agree to anything if it meant everyone would get out of his apartment and leave him alone.
He closed his new door behind the warder and locked it. He desperately wanted to call Charles. That desperation made him more determined not to. He’d answer Charles’ call tomorrow, thank him and reassure him he was okay.
Then he’d be done with him.
* * * *
Charles didn’t call until late afternoon, late enough that Harlan was tempted to call him first to get it over with. He didn’t.
When it finally did ring, Harlan stared at his phone like it might attack him if he touched it or even got too close. He didn’t want to answer it and he desperately wanted to answer. He finally snatched it up, almost dropped it, then pressed the talk button. “Hello?” Hello? Who actually says, ‘hello’?
“Hey! It’s Charles.”
“Hi.” Slightly better.
“How are you? No heart palpitations or anything?”
“No, nothing like that.” Had Charles googled ‘hypothermia aftereffects’? Harlan hadn’t been aware that was something he should have been worried about. Now he was. He couldn’t be sure if his hear
t was racing because he was talking to Charles or because it was about to explode because he’d almost frozen to death the night before. He was relieved when Charles continued.
“Your new door got installed okay? No ghost troubles?”
“Yes. No—I’m fine. Thanks for checking in.” He tried to sound as crisp and businesslike as possible. He was cutting Charles off after this conversation, after all. There was no point in getting too friendly.
“I said I would.”
“Yeah. And…thanks. For helping me. Again. Thanks again for helping me, and thanks for helping me, again.” So much for businesslike.
“Of course. Any— You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah. Look… I…I gotta go. Thanks.”
“Take care. Call—”
“I will.” He hung up. It was too bad that his last words to Charles were a lie.
Chapter Twelve
An unfamiliar police code crackled over the radio in Hamilton’s squad car. It wasn’t one Harlan recognized. Hamilton had never taken the time to tell him what each one meant, but Harlan was slowly learning them by context and repetition.
And Google.
Hamilton cursed as he pulled the car around into oncoming traffic, barely turning on the lights and siren before starting the manoeuvre.
Harlan stiffened in his seat. Usually, their ‘missions’ weren’t at all urgent, except from the perspective of the people whose property was haunted and wanted the ghost removed as quickly as possible so they could reopen for business.
He glanced at Hamilton. The officer’s mouth was tight and grim, and the frown lines beside his mouth and the crows’ feet around his eyes—well, the one eye Harlan could see from this angle—were etched even deeper than usual. Whatever was happening, Hamilton didn’t bother explaining, weaving in between cars and taking turns so sharply that Harlan squeaked, digging his nails into his palms. Harlan didn’t ask. Hamilton rarely said more than the bare minimum to Harlan, and Harlan was happy to return the favour.
They drove in silence, Hamilton gripping the steering wheel so hard that the black imitation leather creaked.
They passed an alley, blocked by blue police sawhorses and uniformed officers whose pinched expressions were eerily similar to Hamilton’s, as though they’d all attended the same seminar—How to Scowl—during their training. There were three cruisers parked on either side of the alley’s entrance, lights on and sirens off, and one unmarked car with its dashboard light on.
Hamilton muttered under his breath when he couldn’t find a parking spot. The alley was barred at the other end of the block too.
As they passed for the third time, Hamilton stopped the cruiser so abruptly that they were almost rear-ended. The driver behind them had probably been trying to see past the police barricade, not paying attention to the road.
“Get out.”
Harlan shot Hamilton a brief, worried look.
Hamilton sighed but softened his voice a fraction. “Get out here. I’ll find a place to park farther out—if you think you can go three minutes without me holding your hand.”
That was a relief, actually. Hamilton’s surliness, combined with the unexplained urgency, was putting Harlan on edge, and that was never a good mindset when dealing with spirits.
With such a large police presence, it must be an especially aggressive ghost. Possibly more than one. Great.
Harlan opened the door with a tiny nod at Hamilton, who barely waited until Harlan had both feet on the pavement to take off.
With the cruiser out of the way, the man in the car that had almost hit them pulled even with the alley, waving frantically at Harlan.
Puzzled, Harlan approached.
The man rolled down the passenger side window, leaning over as far as his seatbelt would allow. “Hey! What happened?” He jerked his head in the direction of the barricades.
Harlan opened his mouth to say he had no idea, that he’d just gotten there, but… While he wasn’t a cop, he was at least associated with the police now. Deciding he needed to sound slightly more official, he settled on, “I’m not at liberty to say,” and walked away before the man could reply.
A uniformed officer stopped him at the barrier. His mind went blank for a moment, then he reached into his pocket.
Shifting his stance, the officer dropped his hand to his holster and unsnapped it, not drawing it yet.
When he realised how close he’d come to getting himself shot, Harlan’s eyes widened and his voice was barely a squeak. “I’m just… ID!” He pulled out the laminated card with a metal clip that Hamilton had given him. He’d never had to use it before. Hamilton had always led the way. Everything about Hamilton screamed ‘cop’ so loudly that Harlan suspected he could get through even out of his uniform—in a city where no one knew him.
The cop took the badge from Harlan, frowning at it, then at Harlan.
“I haven’t gotten my photo ID yet,” Harlan apologized, feeling like he needed to justify his entire existence.
Still without speaking, the man handed Harlan’s badge back and stepped aside.
“Thank—”
His mouth was full of blood. He coughed, retched, trying to spit it out, but more flowed in to take its place. He fell to all fours, felt a crunch as one of the delicate bones in his face shattered, screamed as a sudden, invisible blow struck his ribs. He curled in a tight, protective ball in the dirty alley, drowning in his own blood as something unseen continued to batter him.
“Hey.”
A hand on his shoulder, gentle, but he flinched away from it.
“You’re not the first person this has happened to. That’s why you’re here. Get up.”
Hamilton. Not who—or what—had attacked him.
Harlan swallowed, tasting only his own saliva, without a hint of blood. He could breathe. He wasn’t choking. Nothing had hit him.
He wanted to leave, now, before the spirit he could feel circling came howling back into him. He was shaking badly, his teeth chattering, covered in rapidly cooling sweat.
“Can I—?”
He had to stop, clear his throat, swallow again before he could continue. “Can I see the body?” He didn’t want to, didn’t want anything but to leave and never come back, but he needed to see it.
Hamilton gave him a look he couldn’t read, and for a moment Harlan flashed back to school at the Centre. He doubted Hamilton cared that he’d said ‘can’ rather than ‘may,’ the way certain teachers had insisted.
Was he not allowed to view the victim’s body?
A pause, and Hamilton shrugged. “Sure.” He inclined his head in the direction of the pathetically small form in a body bag off to one side. “She’s been moved,” he warned. “I’m not sure if that makes a difference to you either way.”
Oh, please, not a child. The spirit hadn’t felt like it was that young, but ghosts didn’t always manifest the way they’d appeared in life, including chronological age. Though Harlan had never heard of a ghost appearing older than the person when they’d died.
As he approached the body, the uniformed officer standing beside it gave Harlan a quizzical look but didn’t stop him. She must have assumed he belonged there, and he frantically wanted to tell her he didn’t, but he forced himself to keep walking.
He knelt, hovering his fingers over the zipper, his hand trembling. He touched the metal tab, jerking his hand back as though it had burned him. Taking a deep breath, almost a sob, he grabbed the zipper firmly and pulled, exposing the corpse’s face.
Pain. Pain pain pain pain fear. Rage. Helpless
Nothing.
“Hey. Hey!”
Pain, but different. His face stung. He tried to open his eyes, realized they were already open, but all he could see was black. Panicked, he sat up, blinking, trying to clear the darkness from his vision. A pale blur, a shaky outline, then a face. Hamilton. Again. Harlan smiled, found moving even that much hurt. You do care, he thought, distantly. One of his eyes still wasn’t tracking or focusin
g properly, making Hamilton’s face look flat and distorted.
There was a murmur of voices around them, but Hamilton used his body as a shield. Harlan’s smile widened before he could stop himself. Ow.
“What the fuck are you smiling about?” Hamilton leaned down, snapped his fingers in front of Harlan’s face. “Hey. You still in there?”
Harlan nodded. Slowly. Every muscle felt raw and stiff. Even though he knew Hamilton was speaking normally, his words sounded too fast, slippery, darting away like minnows when he tried to grasp them.
“Good. You scared the sh— What happened? You hardly looked at the body, then you fell down and started twitching like you were having a fucking seizure. An ambulance is on the way.” He leaned down farther. “Your eye’s all fucked up.”
That didn’t surprise Harlan. He felt like he’d fallen at least a few feet—and been slammed into the pavement a few times.
There was something physically wrong with his eye. He could start from there.
“Show me,” Harlan said, impressed by how even his voice sounded.
Hamilton held up his cell. Harlan nodded, opening his eye as wide as possible, even though it hurt. Hamilton passed him the phone with the camera app already open and reversed for taking a selfie, and Harlan winced. It looked pretty bad. His sclera was red and bloodshot, like a vessel had burst when the ghost had slammed in or out of him.
“No.”
“What?”
“No ambulance.” With a monumental force of will he hadn’t known he possessed—perhaps a poor choice of words, given the circumstances—Harlan managed to stand. “No ambulance. No people. Get everyone out of here.”
“You still possessed?”
Harlan hoped he was imagining the twitch of Hamilton’s hand toward his holster. He shook his head, his chin abruptly falling onto his chest when his neck stopped supporting his head. “Making her stronger. Need…” He blinked, realized what it was. “No men. Women can stay, but back.”
“All right.” Giving Harlan a long, searching look, Hamilton started wrangling the other police officers. Once the men had left and the women were out of the barricaded area, Hamilton returned.