Rattling Chains

by T. Strange

  “Charles!” Temporarily forgetting about James, Harlan ran over to Hamilton, reaching up to touch Charles’ head. “What happened? Is he all right?”

  Hamilton pushed past Harlan, carrying Charles farther into the main room. “He’s fine. Well, just unconscious, anyway. Little fucker set a trap for us, knocked him out. Luckily he missed me.” He shrugged, shifting Charles a little higher and getting a better grip. “Backup should be here by now. Something’s wrong. We have to get the fuck out of here.”

  Harlan had never agreed with him more.

  “Come on,” Hamilton told James. “Let’s get you out of here.” He didn’t visibly react to James’ ruined face at all, which Harlan found impressive.

  James showed none of the hesitation with Hamilton that he had with Harlan. He obeyed instantly, rolling off the table and standing on trembling legs.

  Hoisting Charles again, Hamilton headed toward the door they’d entered from. It was still open, letting in a wedge of clear sunlight. It seemed wrong that it was still broad daylight outside, not the middle of the night.

  Harlan wanted to run, had to force himself to stay close to Hamilton and not abandon Charles or James.

  “What about…?”

  Hamilton shook his head, grunting a little with effort. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, but he kept going, half-carrying, half-dragging Charles. “We’ll deal with him later. Right now, they’re our priority.”

  There was a sound behind them, and all three turned to look.

  Still holding the ball of energy he’d taken from James, the killer stalked them, moving slowly, not rushing.

  He didn’t have to.

  “Oh God. No, no!” James screamed. He tried to run, screaming again as he was violently jerked back by his head—his face. The paper-thin, mummified skin tore, releasing a puff of foul brown dust and exposing James’ bare skull.

  The killer made a gentle, almost beckoning motion, and James was dragged back, step by step, by the decayed part of his face.

  Hamilton dropped Charles, turning to face the killer. “Stop,” he ordered, in his most commanding voice. He made Harlan want to stop everything—even breathing—immediately, but the killer only shook his head silently and advanced.

  Hamilton threw a desperate look between the door, Charles’ inert body and the oncoming murderer. Before he could come to a decision, the full impact of Charles’ unconsciousness hit them.

  The killer made a gathering motion again, this time with both arms sweeping in a wide, engulfing semi-circle. All around them, one after another, ghosts winked into existence—Charles’ protection only worked while he was conscious. They were surrounded.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Hamilton grabbed for James’ hand, trying to pull him back, but the invisible, irresistible force was too strong. With a wild scream, James was flung deeper into the building. He landed in the gloom, his limbs splayed.

  “Is he…?” Harlan asked, so frightened he could barely force even those two words out.

  “I don’t know. You and me—and Charles—have to get out of here now, while we still can.” Hamilton shot a brief glance at James’ prone form, shaking his head. “We’ll have to come back for him.”

  Part of Harlan wanted to argue, to insist they take James with them or not leave at all, but it was surprisingly small. The vast majority of him was perfectly fine with that plan, because it took care of the people who mattered to him. He didn’t like his acceptance, but he could understand it.

  The ghosts pressed closer, but slowly, as though frightened of Harlan—or maybe simply reluctant. He wasn’t sure if they planned to attack or wanted to get as far away from their killer as they could. Harlan wasn’t sure how the other ghosts—the ones that had made him suspect there was a killer in the first place—had gotten free, but that didn’t matter now.

  Surrounded by a ring of ghosts so thick that it partially obscured him—how could he have killed this many people, Harlan wondered, without anyone noticing?—the killer stalked forward. Still silent, he pointed at Charles, that twisted smile cracking his lips again.

  “Grab his feet.” Hooking an arm under each of Charles’ armpits, Hamilton didn’t wait long enough for Harlan to obey before he started dragging Charles back toward the door they’d entered from.

  Harlan scrambled to catch up, hesitating only a moment when he realized it meant he had to turn his back on the killer and his clot of ghosts. Lifting Charles’ ankles, he could tell Hamilton was taking most of Charles’ weight, but he still struggled to keep up. Maybe he’d have to start lifting weights, if they all survived this.

  Before they’d gone more than twenty feet, Harlan heard a scream behind him, high and wordless. Dropping Charles’ booted feet, Harlan clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the piercing sound.

  With the shriek still ringing in his ears, Harlan felt something slam into him from behind. Already off-balance, he stumbled forward. His feet tangled with Charles’ legs and he fell, hard. He ended up flat on his back with his legs sprawled behind him, one of Charles’ feet on either side of his head. He’d landed on one of his arms, and he’d heard a thin crunch in one of his wrists. He spared an instant to cautiously flex it. It hurt, but he could move it. Before he could scramble to his feet, a howling ghost dove at him—that must have been what had hit him before. Another ghost, its edges hazy and inhuman, swooped at Hamilton.

  “Fuck!” Hamilton ducked, the ghost passing just above his arms, which were curled protectively over his head.

  It turned to attack again, but Harlan used its moment of distraction to stand. Forgetting his injury, Harlan used both hands to push himself to his feet. He cried out as a sharp bolt of pain shot through his wrist, but it wasn’t strong enough to break his focus for long. He threw himself between the ghosts and the other men, blinking so he could touch the other side. The world seemed to go quiet, the only sound the hammering of his racing heartbeat in his ears, the ragged panting of his breath.

  This time, when the next ghost swooped, Harlan was ready for it. He lunged, jumping a few inches off the ground with his uninjured left arm extended. He caught the ghost where its ankle would have been, if it had been more human-shaped. As it was, what he held looked more like a pseudopod than anything that had ever been human. He flinched at the bone-deep cold that instantly spread up his arm, but grimly held on. The ghost strained to pull free, its phantom ‘limb’ stretching and distorting, but it couldn’t escape.

  Sparing a brief glance at the rest of the room, Harlan saw that the other ghosts had retreated. He hoped they were afraid of what he might do to the one he’d captured, not planning to attack en masse.

  Hamilton laughed triumphantly, the abrupt sound startling Harlan so badly that he almost released the ghost.

  “Ha! All right, get rid of it.”

  Harlan’s cheeks flushed. He hadn’t realized Hamilton thought so highly of his skills. He reluctantly shook his head. “Can’t. Not enough time, not with all this.” His arm felt like it was burning now, the cold creeping up towards his shoulder. His hand was utterly numb. He was terrified that, without any feeling, his grip would loosen and the ghost would escape. He forced his fingers to tighten, trusting that they were obeying but unable to tell.

  With something like a snarl, the killer swung his arm like a general calling for a charge. A single ghost peeled away from the mass, spinning in midair and looking disoriented, as though the killer’s motion had swept it forward involuntarily. The others remained huddled together, wheeling and circling the killer.

  Harlan gritted his teeth and braced himself. He’d never tried to control two ghosts at the same time before, but he didn’t have a choice. He grabbed for a ragged pseudopod dangling below the new ghost, caught the very edge, let go and managed to catch a decent handful.

  The second ghost fought to get away but gave up after a few seconds. Harlan relaxed infinitesimally and the ghost turned on him. He cried out as one of its misshapen fists hit him in the h
ead, but he didn’t let go. He could blink again and the ghosts wouldn’t be able to touch him, at least not as easily—but it would also mean he couldn’t hold them, leaving them free to turn on Hamilton and Charles, who would be completely helpless. Ghosts this strong, this angry, could easily harm them.

  That deadening, relentless cold traced across both arms now, inexorably creeping closer to his heart. Harlan’s whole body spasmed—beyond shivering—as it fought to survive. He held on.

  “How can I—?” Hamilton seemed to have forgotten his gun during the horror of the last few minutes, but he raised it now. The killer was distracted, watching Harlan’s struggle with an unreadable expression.

  Hamilton aimed.

  Instantly, the clot of ghosts began to murmur and seethe, boiling like water, their movement distracting and concealing the killer’s position.

  The killer looked up, realization slowly dawning when he saw the gun. He didn’t move, only raised his hands in front of himself and closed his eyes.

  Still gripping both ghosts as tightly as his numb fingers would allow, Harlan watched as Hamilton fired. God, let it be this easy. Let him want to die.

  It was a clean shot and should have caught the killer in the chest. Harlan heard the bullet hit something, but it didn’t sound like flesh, and the killer didn’t so much as stumble back a step.

  Harlan tried to blink the haze out of his vision, then realized the problem wasn’t his eyes at all. A ghost had solidified in front of the killer. It must have deflected the bullet. Somehow, he’d forced the ghost solid. Harlan had never seen, never heard of, a medium with that ability.

  His grip slackened for a moment, and only the sudden jerk on his arm let him know a ghost was trying to escape. Both of his hands were completely numb with cold, but Harlan forced himself to hang on. He glanced down—the tips of his fingers were white. He looked away, horrified. He couldn’t hold them much longer, not without potentially losing the use of his fingers, maybe needing to have them amputated. Just a little longer. A few more seconds, enough time for Hamilton to do…something. He had to have a plan, had to, even though the killer had just done something Harlan never could have predicted, never mind Hamilton.

  Hamilton fired again, the bullet whining as it ricocheted off a ghost and disappeared sideways into the darkness. He jammed his gun back into its holster with a look of disgust. “Now what?”

  Harlan opened his right hand, ignoring the bolt of pain that went through his fingers at the movement. The freed ghost vanished, not taking the time to retaliate. He had to use his right hand to pry apart the fingers on his left. No matter how hard he concentrated on them, he couldn’t make them move. Crying out with pain every time they opened a fraction, he finally managed to free his hand and release the other ghost. It, too, sailed off into the darkness without attacking him.

  Harlan tucked both hands in his armpits, desperate to warm them. “I don’t know.” He forced his attention out—away from himself and his pain—and back to the murderer, who was standing in front of him.

  The killer smiled and made a sweeping gesture with both hands. The thick mass of spirits flowed out and away from him in two arcs, converging on Harlan, Charles and Hamilton.

  Harlan ducked, but the ghosts ignored him. Instead, they surrounded Hamilton, whirling so thick and fast that Harlan had difficulty seeing him. Hamilton’s mouth was open and Harlan thought he was screaming, but the rush and murmur of ghosts was too loud for him to hear anything else. They lifted Hamilton a few feet off the ground, tumbling him wildly in their vortex. One of his arms hit an overhead pipe and snapped away from his body at an unnatural angle. His face was turning blue, like he wasn’t getting enough air, like the ghosts were preventing oxygen from reaching his lungs, and his fingertips were already almost as white as Harlan’s. Harlan could feel the stygian cold from where he stood.

  “No! Stop. What do you want? T-take me. Leave him alone!”

  The killer made a subduing motion and the ghosts slowed, letting Hamilton fall to the floor. Harlan heard Hamilton take a huge breath, followed almost immediately by a scream as he jarred his broken arm. In addition to that injury, Harlan suspected, he’d be badly bruised over most of his body.

  Hamilton curled in on himself, around his arm.

  The killer smiled again and gestured at Charles.

  This was the second time he’d pointed to him.

  “Wake him up.” The killer’s voice was raspy and hoarse, as though he hadn’t spoken for a long, long time.

  “What?” Harlan blinked.

  “Wake him up and I’ll let this one go.” He jerked his head in Hamilton’s direction.

  He was still surrounded by ghosts, but they didn’t seem to be actively attacking him now.

  “Why?” The question was out before Harlan could stop himself from asking it.

  The killer’s only response was to point more emphatically.

  “Charles.” Harlan knelt beside him, trying to ignore Hamilton’s sounds of distress. He lightly patted Charles’ cheek. “Charles, please wake up.” There was blood in Charles’ dark hair, a lot of it. Harlan gently, carefully brushed it aside, trying to find the wound itself.

  There was a long, narrow gash above Charles’ right ear, but Harlan couldn’t see exposed bone. Hopefully that meant the wound wasn’t too bad.

  Charles groaned, lifting his left arm just off the ground.

  Wiping away a tear, Harlan swallowed hard. “Charles, please… Please wake up.”

  Charles opened his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest of smiles. “Harlan?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Harlan could see the ghosts flickering in and out of sight as Charles’ power wavered.

  “It’s me. Are you—?” He didn’t finish his question. Of course Charles wasn’t all right. None of them were, and the situation would only get worse the longer they were trapped here. “Can you sit up?”

  Charles tried to lift his head, then let it fall again. “Dizzy.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I don’t think we’re supposed to move you, but…I don’t think we have a choice right now.”

  “Help me sit up.”

  Harlan gave Charles’ forehead a brief kiss, immediately regretting this display of affection with the killer watching them.

  He slid his arms beneath Charles’ shoulders and helped him into a sitting position.

  Charles sat with his head slumped almost to his chest, groaning with pain. “Gonna—” He turned and threw up, spattering himself. Breathing shallowly, he wiped his mouth, staring numbly at the man watching them. “What happened?” he mumbled, leaning heavily on Harlan.

  “He knocked you out. And now—”

  Charles blinked, trying to focus. The ghosts surrounding Hamilton vanished again but quickly reappeared.

  The killer laughed, a strangely dry sound, like paper blowing in the wind. “You have no idea what a treasure you’ve brought me, do you?”

  Shifting himself so he was between Charles and the killer again, Harlan shook his head. “I-I’d think he’d be the last person you’d want near you.” Maybe if he could get the killer talking, engage him in conversation, he’d be able to buy enough time for…what? Hamilton to spring into action? A rescue? He didn’t hold out much hope for either, but he didn’t know what else to do.

  The killer laughed again, and this time it sounded like a sob. “I want the same thing you do from him.”

  Harlan blushed, hoping neither of the other two had heard that.

  The killer cocked his head and frowned, looking confused. “Do you think I want this?” He gestured at the seething knot of spirits surrounding them.

  Considering he’d just seen the man mummify someone’s face, his first thought was Yes, but he didn’t think that wasn’t what the man wanted him to say. He stayed quiet and still, waiting for the killer to keep talking, hoping to buy more time for a miracle or something.

  “With him…I could be free…just for a while.” He pointed up
at the ghosts, and for an instant, he reminded Harlan of a painting he’d once seen of a martyr, his eyes drawn up toward Heaven while his body was torn apart.

  “You could let them go,” Harlan suggested, softly. “You don’t need them. You don’t need him.”

  He shook his head, violently. “No. No! I’d die without them. But he could keep me from seeing them all the time.” He pressed his closed fist to his chest. “I just want a little peace. You understand.”

  Harlan nodded slowly, reluctantly. He did understand. If he’d grown up without ghost wards, without the Centre… He shuddered. Why did Charles’ power work on him and the killer, when it hadn’t worked on the other police medium he’d met? It raised the extremely disturbing possibility that it meant he shared some common bond with this monster, one he didn’t share with other mediums.

  The killer’s voice softened, becoming almost a whine. “I only take the ones who beg for it.”

  Harlan tried to control his face so he wouldn’t show his disgust. None of the ghosts he’d seen had seemed like they’d died voluntarily. “What do you mean?” he asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

  “The ones…their ghosts, I can see them, on the surface. They want to be free.”

  “You mean, you see them while the—” He had to cut himself off. He’d almost said ‘ghost vessel’“—the person is still alive?”

  He nodded, a look of what might be called gratitude crossing his face. “Yes. Exactly. You understand.”

  Harlan didn’t, hoped he never did, but playing along was the closest thing he had to an idea to save them.

  The killer smiled, looking friendly and gentle, and suddenly Harlan could see all too well how he’d gotten close enough to capture his victims. He shivered.

  “I saw you watching earlier, when your thug tried to shoot me. You don’t know how to make a ghost shield you, do you?”

  Harlan shook his head.

  “I could teach you. You could learn so much from me.”