Rattling Chains

by T. Strange

  Harlan frowned. He wasn’t a very good liar, and his mind conjured images of interrogation rooms.

  Hamilton said, “It’s going to be fine. If anyone takes heat for this, it’ll be me. But that’s the easiest explanation that lets us both keep our jobs.”

  Harlan nodded, reluctantly.

  “Good. You go ahead and call him, now.” Hamilton glanced at the building. “Would me calling for backup—police backup—help?”

  “I don’t think so. This many ghosts… Even for someone without a speck of mediumistic talent, it could be dangerous.”

  “Won’t that include Charles?”

  Harlan shook his head. “It’s not that he doesn’t just…not have talent. He has…I don’t know, anti-talent?”

  “Whatever. We’ll figure it out later. Call him. I’ll have to radio for backup eventually, but I can try to buy us a few minutes.”

  Charles answered on the second ring. “Hey, everything all right? You usually text—”

  “I found him.”

  “Found who?”

  “The serial killer. I found where he’s been doing it.”

  “Holy shit. Why are you calling me? Shouldn’t you call Hamilton?”

  “He’s here with me already, but we need you. There are so many ghosts… We can’t get through.”

  “Harlan, maybe you should—”

  Harlan cut him off again. “There’s no time. We just heard someone scream inside, and we need you here right now so we can get in and have any chance of saving them, never mind catching this guy.”

  Charles sighed, audibly. “Okay. Fuck. Okay. Just… I’ll be there as soon as I can. Be careful, all right? Wait until I get there?”

  Harlan could hear rustling noises, which he assumed was Charles getting dressed. He gave him the address for where they were, and they hung up.

  Hamilton had been speaking to the dispatcher while Harlan was on the phone. He got out of the squad car, approached the ring of ghosts and grimaced. “I told them we found an unregistered haunting and you need radio silence to concentrate.” He shrugged. “It was the best I could come up with. Fuck, I’m so going to be fired, but…” He glanced at the building again.

  Harlan suspected the sentence finished, ‘…but it’s worth it if we save someone.’

  Charles’ black Jetta pulled in beside them, parking on the wrong side of the street. Charles got out, surveying the buildings around them. “Which one is it?”

  Harlan couldn’t imagine not being able to tell. He suspected that even in a sensory deprivation tank, he’d still be able to sense this much spectral activity. But now that he thought about it… He pointed to the old Sears and was astonished to see Charles’ presence had opened a corridor, a passage through the ghosts like Moses parting the Red Sea. They hadn’t all vanished, but there was a clear path leading towards the building. Charles’ power apparently had a radius, a defined area of affect that surrounded him.

  “Take a step to the left,” Harlan told him without looking away.

  Looking slightly puzzled, Charles obeyed.

  The area moved with him. Perfect.

  Harlan thought it was smaller than Charles’ usual radius—not that he’d explored it all that thoroughly—and he wondered if the sheer number of ghosts was affecting his non-ability.

  “Charles,” Charles said, extending his hand at the same moment Hamilton offered his own.

  “Hamilton.”

  The two men shook hands, firmly but not testing each other. Neither of them were apparently insecure in their masculinity.

  Right. Harlan always forgot to make introductions.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Charles said. “I mean, we met once, briefly. But we didn’t exactly get introduced.”

  Hamilton snorted. “I wish I could say the same. I’d never heard of you until a few minutes ago, but that doesn’t really surprise me.” Turning to Harlan, Hamilton asked, “Ready?”

  Harlan nodded woodenly. Even with the path Charles had cleared, every nerve in his body was screaming at him to run, to get away from this place, as far as he could go—Outer Mongolia, maybe—but he’d heard that scream. He knew none—or very few—of these ghosts had died naturally. He had to keep any more from being created, if he could.

  Clinging to that thought, he took a step forward. He half-expected to feel the unyielding pressure again, of so many ghosts pressed together, but he encountered no resistance. He stretched out his arm experimentally, then pulled back with a shudder. It was like submerging his hand in ice water.

  Hamilton didn’t shoot out the lock, as Harlan had secretly been anticipating, but watching him kick in the glass door was satisfying too. All three men froze, but they didn’t hear any alarms. Hopefully no security company had been alerted to the break-in and would come to investigate.

  Making sure the others were following, Harlan stepped into the abandoned store.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Harlan blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dimness of the building. There were very few windows, but every third or fourth light had been left on, leaving pools of brightness surrounded by darkness, which was also very much how Harlan felt.

  Making out a huddled shape in the distance, Harlan froze. Gun un-holstered, Hamilton silently pushed him aside, covering both of them. Peering around Hamilton, Harlan saw it was just an overturned piece of shelving.

  Motioning for Harlan and Charles to stay where they were, Hamilton slowly advanced. It seemed to Harlan that he was able to look in several directions at once—very impressive. Maybe if they all lived and neither of them got fired, Harlan would look into some actual police training.

  Hamilton stopped and held up a hand to get Harlan’s attention. He motioned at his eyes, then pointed.

  It took Harlan a moment to see what Hamilton had observed, and even then he could barely make it out. Did he need glasses? It didn’t help that there were more ghosts in the way, beyond the reach of Charles’ power, making his vision swim and blur as they moved restlessly.

  In a windowless corner of the former department store, farthest from the door, Harlan could just make out a table with a bulky shape on it, and what looked like a shadowy figure standing beside it.

  Another scream, muffled this time.

  Without looking back, Hamilton barrelled forward, gun raised. “Police, freeze!”

  The figure looked up but didn’t move.

  Within a few paces Hamilton began to slow, and he kept swiping at the air in front of him as though attempting to clear away cobwebs. “I can’t…”

  “Charles, we have to help him.” Harlan reached out to take Charles’ hand, only to find it was already extended for him. Hand in hand, they followed Hamilton, running to match his speed once Hamilton was clear of ghostly interference.

  Harlan could see the table clearly now. What he’d taken as random debris was actually a human form, covered by a filthy canvas tarp and tied down at neck, chest, wrists and ankles. Perhaps hearing them approach, the figure struggled feebly, words or screams reduced to muffled moans.

  The man standing beside the table held his hand over his victim’s mouth. He didn’t look up but made a strange scooping motion with his free hand. Even with Charles this close, Harlan could see what he was doing—as he gestured, a fine, silvery mist rose from the victim’s body, coalescing into a stream above his chest.

  “What the fuck is happening?” Just for an instant, Hamilton clapped a hand to his ear, cocking his head as though trying to block out a horrible sound. Shaking his head, he resumed his shooting stance, steady and unwavering.

  “I’m…not sure.” Harlan opened his mouth as little as possible, not wanting to give the bile rising in his throat a way out. Whatever he was seeing, it felt unspeakably wrong, so foul that it made his guts revolt.

  “Can I shoot him?” Hamilton’s gun was already trained on the standing figure.

  “I think so…?”

  “Good enough.” Addressing t
he figure—Harlan couldn’t bring himself to think of this monstrosity as a fellow medium—Hamilton raised his voice. “Freeze! Drop the— Stop what you’re doing, now, or I’ll shoot.”

  At that, the man finally seemed to notice that he and his victim were no longer alone. His head snapped up, his mouth falling open in an O of surprise when he saw the three of them, Hamilton poised to shoot. The guy’s hair was pure white and he was cadaverously thin, but with an unsettlingly youthful face. He wore an entirely black suit, creating the illusion that his pale head and hands were floating in the dimness.

  His mouth cracked open in a twisted smile, and he made another motion with his hands—this time a gathering motion, as though collecting something and rolling it into a ball between his palms. Harlan could see the misty whiteness thickening, being drawn into the man’s hands. He’d hoped that, with the man’s concentration broken, the mist would return to the victim, but he only seemed to be gathering it more quickly now.

  “Last warning,” Hamilton barked.

  With a final yank, the man tore the shimmering ball free of the misty tether connecting it to the victim, gathering it against his chest like a kitten. He turned and ran, the canvas-covered form on the table howling now that its mouth wasn’t covered, writhing as much as possible with the cruelly tight ropes holding it in place.

  “Fuck!” Hamilton was already running after the man, turning to look back only long enough to shout, “You two stay with him. I’m calling for backup.” He tore around the blind corner where the man had already disappeared, leading toward what had probably been offices or changing rooms in the department store.

  “Should I follow him?” Charles asked, frowning after Hamilton.

  Harlan wanted to say ‘No,’ to selfishly keep Charles there, beside him—not so much for Charles’ safety as for his own—but he suspected the clot of ghosts followed the man, which meant Hamilton needed him more. “Go with him. Be careful—and stay safe.”

  “I will.” Planting a brief kiss on the back of Harlan’s hand, Charles ran after Hamilton.

  Alone, Harlan shivered. There were still a few stray ghosts drifting aimlessly through the massive space, but they ignored him. As he’d suspected, the bulk of them had gone with the man, whether they wanted or were compelled to.

  He stared down at the still figure beneath the tarp. Every hair on his body stood on end. Suffering victim or no, he did not want to see what the canvas covered. He didn’t want to know what effect taking the white substance had on a living person.

  Steeling himself with a deep breath that sounded more like a sob—barely audible over the pitched, frantic breaths that puffed the sheet out with each exhale then drew it down into the mouth with each inhale—Harlan forced himself to examine the knots.

  They were pulled too tight for him to undo, at least in a hurry. He knew both Charles and Hamilton carried knives, but that didn’t help him here and now. He took a step back, stumbling over an empty shoebox.

  “Hello?” The sheet-draped figure spoke for the first time. It sounded like a man, high and frightened. “Are you still there? You’re not him, are you? Please don’t leave me.”

  The words startled Harlan and he barely bit back a yelp. Forcing himself to whisper, to match the victim’s pitch, he said, “I’m here to help you and I’m not going anywhere. I just have to find something to cut the rope.”

  Turning—and watching where he stepped more closely—Harlan spotted a jagged piece of metal lying in a pile of debris nearby. It was heavier than he’d expected, and it was a bit of struggle to hold it up to the ropes and saw at them, but he didn’t want to take the time to look for something better. He could hear the covered figure’s short, panicked breaths every few seconds, reminding him of the need to hurry.

  The first rope, around the bound man’s ankles, gave way, the flying end just missing Harlan’s face.

  “Good, good, keep going, please!”

  Harlan bit back a frustrated response—he was sure he’d have said the same thing if their positions were reversed, but what did the man think he was doing?—and awkwardly lifted the scrap of metal to the next rope. It slipped, bouncing off the taut rope, and cut his hand on the webbing between finger and thumb. He hissed, dropping his makeshift knife and immediately pressing the wound to his mouth, trying to catch all the blood. It was too late.

  He watched a single drop fall, as if in slow motion, to spatter the bare concrete floor between his feet.

  Fuck.

  With blood spilled, he could feel the ghosts’ attention drawn to him, and he didn’t have Charles near enough to protect him.

  “What’s happening?” the covered man moaned, bending his legs so he could plant his feet on the table’s surface and push. The ropes creaked but held.

  “I cut myself. It’s fine.” The bleeding had mostly stopped, but the ghosts were already drawing closer. Harlan picked up the scrap of metal again and continued sawing the rope holding the man’s middle.

  It sprang free. Harlan, seeing the last few fibres about to snap, ducked his head this time—and the man was free from the waist down, now held only by his neck and wrists.

  “Hurry, hurry!” the bound man gasped, fear and his imminent release making him raise his voice rather than continue whispering.

  Harlan looked up, utterly convinced for a moment that he’d see the killer standing over them, drawn by his victim’s voice, but they were still alone. He began cutting the rope around his neck, but now the bound man was struggling.

  Harlan froze, pulling the sharp metal away—even with the canvas, he was worried about cutting the man beneath. “Stay still,” he hissed. “I know you’re frightened, and I’m going as fast as I can, but it won’t help either of us if I cut your throat because you’re squirming.”

  The man beneath the sheet drew a short, sobbing breath, but stopped moving.

  Harlan could see damp patches spreading where his eyes must be.

  This rope was slightly looser, so it wouldn’t strangle the victim, but the slack actually made it more difficult to cut. Harlan tried grabbing it with one hand to tighten it, awkwardly slicing with the other, but soon the victim was gasping as Harlan cut off his airway. Sighing, Harlan went back to sawing at the semi-slack rope. When it was cut nearly through, the man beneath jerked—probably reflexively, in a blind panic to free himself. Luckily Harlan was able to pull away in time, so he didn’t cut either of them. As soon as the rope broke, the man was able to pull his hands apart—apparently his wrists and neck had been connected. He was free now.

  The man sat up, gasping and rubbing his throat. The effect was unsettling, that of a sheet-draped corpse returning to life. The man coughed, then ripped off the canvas tarp covering him. Harlan stepped sideways to avoid letting it touch him. The very fabric itself seemed contaminated.

  As Harlan had suspected, the victim was a young man. He looked East Asian, with black hair and dark eyes, and was wearing a pair of dirty jeans and a filthy, sweat-stained T-shirt that might have once been white. His skin was very pale, and Harlan hoped it was his natural colour or from fear, rather than blood loss from an injury he hadn’t seen yet. He hadn’t noticed any blood on the floor or table, but he hadn’t been looking for it, either.

  The man on the table turned, and as the light struck it, Harlan could see that something was terribly wrong with his face.

  Harlan recoiled, his eyes wide with horror. One side of the man’s face was dry—desiccated—the skin pulled tight against his skull like a mummy. One of his eye sockets was empty, a gaping hole that wasn’t quite covered by a thin, shrivelled eyelid, eyelashes still grotesquely in place. It clearly wasn’t a natural condition, but something the killer had done to him.

  “What? What is it?” the man asked. He whirled to look behind himself, thinking that whatever had frightened Harlan might be lurking there.

  He didn’t know. Fuck. He didn’t know what had happened to him yet, what had been done to him. This wasn’t the time.

  S
wallowing hard, Harlan fought to control his face. “N-nothing,” he said, his voice not sounding convincing, even to his own ears. “I just…saw a shadow.”

  “Do you have any water?” he rasped. He seemed to take Harlan’s words at face value, and Harlan was relieved.

  Harlan shook his head. “Sorry.” He hadn’t exactly come prepared to aid living victims. He wouldn’t have minded some water himself, actually. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “Are you the police? I thought I heard…or was I just imagining?”

  “My…partner is a cop. He’s the one you heard earlier. I’m a medium with the police department. You can trust me.” Harlan immediately regretted adding the final comment. If their positions were reversed, ‘you can trust me’ would be the last thing he’d want to hear. It was usually said by untrustworthy people.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Right. I didn’t introduce myself, sorry. Harlan Brand.”

  “James Price.” He held out his hand which, under the circumstances, Harlan found almost absurd. He shook it anyway, wincing sympathetically at the red marks the rope had left on James’ wrists.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” he repeated, when James showed no sign of moving or getting down from the table.

  “Are you sure he’s gone?”

  Feeling very untrustworthy, Harlan nodded. “My partner and my”—fuck—“other partner went after him. They’ll catch him.”

  James shook his head, eyes wild. “You don’t understand. He can…do stuff. I mean, you hear about the shit mediums can do—talking to ghosts and stuff—but this is different. He’s”—James lowered his voice, glancing around almost superstitiously, as though talking about him might summon his tormentor—“evil.”

  “He is, and I know. Which is why we have to…”

  There was an angry shout from the direction the others had gone. Harlan startled, but James cried out and curled in a tight ball, shaking his head.

  “No, no, no…” he moaned. “He’s got them, and now he’s coming back for us.”

  “I’m sure that’s not—”

  Hamilton appeared around the corner, Charles’ limp body slung over his shoulders. There was a bleeding, swelling wound on Charles’ temple.