Rattling Chains

by T. Strange

  Harlan nodded, shakily. That part, he didn’t have to fake. He was starting to have the barest hint of a plan. He just hoped he was a good enough actor, or looked terrified enough, that the killer wouldn’t realize what he was really thinking. He didn’t have to fake the terror.

  “All you have to do is give him to me.”

  He sounded so calm, so reasonable, that Harlan actually took a step away from Charles. He shook his head, both in negation and to clear it.

  The killer smiled again, almost paternally. “I understand. You care for him. We’ll start with something easier. Kill him.” He pointed to Hamilton.

  Harlan’s breathing sped up and he fought to keep his hands from shaking. He could do this. He forced himself to nod.

  “I know his type. He bullies you and treats you like garbage, doesn’t he?”

  An almost-genuine nod this time. A few months ago he would’ve agreed without hesitation. Now…

  “Here. I’ll help. I’ll always help you, now.” He blinked, and suddenly Harlan could see the places where the ghosts were bound to the killer. Some were faint and wispy and looked like they might blow away at any moment, where others were almost as thick and solid as anchor chains.

  Without them, I’ll die. If he could just sever those links…

  The killer held out a hand, and he took another step forward. “There,” he purred. He reached up into the tangle of ghost-bonds, selected a fairly weak one and passed the thread to Harlan like he was handing a child a shiny balloon.

  Harlan forced himself to reach out and take it, and it immediately wrapped around his wrist, digging in like barbed wire without leaving a physical mark. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, only to be bombarded by what had to be the ghost’s memories—triumphs, failures, joys, sorrows. A lifetime compressed into moments and hurled at him, into him. Slowly coming back to himself, he realized he’d been sobbing, heavy tears flowing down his cheeks. Even then the memories kept coming, striking his mind at random like static shocks, making it hard to focus on who he was, what he was doing. If it were like that for the killer, all the time, multiplied by… Harlan couldn’t tell how many ghosts were bound to him—hundreds? A thousand? No wonder the guy had gone insane.

  I’m sorry. He made me do it. He…

  There was a flash of bone-deep cold, what Harlan always experienced when he touched the dead, but this was an icy spike that bore straight into his heart as the ghost closed their connection. He gasped, actually worried he might die of shock for an instant before he felt his heart stutter to life again. This was unbearable, but he had to bear it if he wanted to survive…to save Hamilton and Charles.

  The killer nodded slowly. “There. It’s yours now. It will do as you command.” He gestured an invitation at Hamilton.

  It all came down to this moment. Everything—the lives of everyone in the room—depended on how convincingly he could sell it. He couldn’t even let the ghost know what he was about to do, in case it still felt some lingering loyalty to the killer and warned him.

  He stepped towards Hamilton, who had managed to rise to his knees, his broken arm curled against his torso. He shook his head, over and over, wide-eyed but grim. “Don’t make me shoot you, kid.”

  Fuck, if only he could wink or something and let Hamilton know he was safe, but he couldn’t trust Hamilton’s expression wouldn’t change and tip off the killer. “Kill”—almost before the word was out of his mouth, the spirit that had tied itself to him sprang forward, eager and fierce as a hunting dog—“him!” He whirled, pointing at the killer.

  The ghost went from a shimmery human form to a pure black nightmare—jagged rows of razor-sharp teeth, hooked claws sprouting from the ends of its misshapen limbs. It needed no further urging to turn on the one who had killed it, kept it prisoner, tormented it.

  For just a moment, Harlan thought it would be enough, that the spirit’s rage was strong enough to break through the other ghosts—who, Harlan hoped, would be just as eager to turn on their master, given the opportunity. It smashed through the protective ball of ghosts, sending them spinning and drifting across the vast open space like dandelion fluff.

  The ghost had the tip of one spectral claw pressed to the killer’s neck, just on the edge of drawing blood, when the killer managed to choke out, “Stop it!”

  Immediately the spirits defending him grabbed the attacker, wrapping their ‘bodies’ around it until it was contained in a whirling sphere of ghosts. Somehow, they still felt reluctant to Harlan, and he hoped he could use that to his advantage.

  This was his one chance.

  The killer was distracted, watching the ghosts battle. The ones still tied to him began tearing pieces from their former companion, leaving gaping, ragged holes of nothingness. It screamed and fought and twisted but couldn’t escape them. Harlan felt every moment of its agony as if it were his own, flinching and crying out as his body, its body, their bodies, were torn apart. He felt it deeper than his bones, but he couldn’t allow himself to get distracted. Not now.

  Keeping low and hopefully out of the killer’s line of sight, Harlan ran straight at the man. He could see a place on the back of his neck where all the ghostly connections, weak or impenetrable, came to a single point. If he could strike it just right…

  No. He had to.

  He tackled the killer and the man fell, taken completely by surprise. Harlan slammed his elbow on the back of the killer’s head, hoping to stun him, and the crunch of bone almost made up for the pain that shot up his arm. He blinked harder than he ever had before, going deeper than he’d ever dared. The connections glowed so bright that he wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t look away. He grabbed the bonds at their very roots, slightly alarmed to see his hand sink into the killer’s flesh, and he could feel them now, knotted around his vertebrae. Pulling the bindings tight with his uninjured hand, he made a violent slashing motion as close to the base as he could get without having to shorten his stroke. He screamed. It felt like smashing his injured wrist against a tree trunk—but he felt it give. The weakest links first, popping free almost immediately, then some of the stronger ones, snapping like broken bow strings. A low, ominous creaking announced that the very strongest connections were weakened. Crying freely, he forced himself to chop at the thickest bonds again…and again.

  They gave way with a boom that knocked Harlan back several feet and shattered a concrete pillar.

  The killer lifted himself to all fours—painfully, Harlan was gratified to see, his nose smashed and bleeding—and snatched at the trailing ectoplasmic threads, desperately trying to gather them back to himself, but the ghosts slipped and darted out of his reach.

  Gasping, Harlan flopped over onto his back. With all the strength he could muster, he ordered, “Kill him.”

  He wasn’t sure if the ghosts would obey. Would any of them remain loyal to their captor? Would they attack any human they saw? But it was the first thought that had come to mind.

  The ghosts descended en masse, swarming the killer until he was nearly invisible beneath layers of ghosts. The screaming started, and Harlan looked away, closing his eyes. He crawled on three limbs over to Charles, James and Hamilton, who’d been knocked down by the spectral explosion. He tried to crouch over them, protect them with his body, but he was too weak and exhausted. He lay on his side between them and the ghosts destroying their former master. A hand found his and he squeezed it hard, relieved to have something alive to anchor himself to. He suspected it was Charles’ but didn’t know for sure. His hands were still mostly numb, but with a faint tingle that made him hopeful feeling would return to them eventually.

  The attack seemed to take forever, but it was over quickly. The world grew ominously silent and still. Charles moaned, and he could feel Hamilton shift beside him. Harlan forced himself to sit up, to turn around. The killer’s body was…gone. Not a drop of blood stained the concrete floor, not a scrap of flesh or clothing remained.

  The ghosts wheeled and shimmered above, fil
ling the upper half of the high-ceilinged space.

  Swallowing hard, Harlan stared up at them. He could feel them watching him, waiting to see what he would do next. He wondered that himself.

  He’d just opened his mouth to speak when a single spirit tore away from the mass and dove at Hamilton, howling.

  Your fault! Never looked for me, never helped me.

  Harlan scrambled to his feet, taking the full brunt of the ghost’s attack in his chest. He staggered back a step, but kept it from reaching the men he was protecting. It howled in his face but swooped back to join the others.

  “You’re free!” he told them, waving his arms like they were a flock of birds he was shooing. “No one here wants to harm you. You’re free.”

  He felt emotions brushing him, sliding past like cats in the darkness—fear, anguish, rage, confusion.

  He felt someone grab his arm and he almost screamed.

  “Let’s get out of here.” It was Hamilton.

  Harlan shook his head. He was hurt and exhausted—beyond exhausted—and he just wanted to curl up and cry, but he knew this wasn’t finished. He had to see it through to the end. He pulled free of Hamilton’s grip and took a step forward.

  He tried to blink, then realized he’d never stopped. No wonder he had a headache and it was difficult to focus on anything.

  He opened a way to the other side, so massive that it made his ears ring. His usual holes were mere doorways. This was a castle gate, massive and booming and empty.

  “Go through. Please. You don’t belong here, please just…go.” He was too tired to convince them, to try and use the bullshit gentling script the Centre had taught him. He’d opened the way, and the rest was up to them.

  One ghost broke away from the group, hovered just in front of the opening.

  Harlan held his breath, waiting. He didn’t want to move or breathe for fear of spooking it into retreating.

  It turned to look at Harlan. Its mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t hear you.” He wasn’t sure if his ears were ringing with the sheer effort of keeping such a massive gateway open or if the ghost couldn’t make noise.

  It pointed to itself, then at the doorway.

  Harlan nodded.

  The ghost floated closer, extended a spectral arm and touched the portal’s edge. There was a moment where the entire world seemed to hold its breath in anticipation, then it glided through and vanished.

  The other ghosts began to whisper and shift, roiling above him while they waited to see what had become of their companion.

  When it didn’t reappear and nothing else happened, the other ghosts began to separate. With each one that passed, the others hesitated a little less before entering.

  Slowly at first, in ones and twos, the ghosts departed for the other side. Harlan was sure he heard a few whispers of thank you, or fleeting feelings of gratitude when a ghost brushed past him on its way out.

  The trickle became a flood, and the mass above him started thinning.

  Finally, the building was empty except for Harlan and the other men.

  Almost.

  Harlan had barely begun closing the doorway when he felt a sharp tug, simultaneously on his wrist and behind his breastbone. A feeling that, if had been a sound, would have been a small, polite cough.

  The ghost the killer had given Harlan. It was still attached to him, not free to leave with the others. He felt a moment of desperate panic when he didn’t know how to get rid of it, but he wanted it out of him right now or he’d be sick. He happened to glance at his wrist, and there was a glowing point that resembled a tiny version of what he’d ripped out of the killer’s neck. The connection was thread-thin and smoky. Closing his eyes, he pinched it off. He felt it break, gasping with relief. He was himself again, wholly and alone.

  He opened his eyes.

  The ghost drifted in front of him, once again a human-shaped apparition. It smiled, bowing its shadowy head as if in thanks. It vanished through the doorway, which collapsed in on itself, leaving the warehouse entirely in the world of the living.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Hamilton carried James while Harlan supported Charles, who had one arm slung around Harlan’s neck.

  Hamilton was slightly ahead, and Harlan saw him shift his grip on James so he could raise one hand. “Don’t shoot!”

  Harlan froze at the words. Did the killer have an accomplice? Had they defeated him, only to fall victim to a second, unknown killer?

  He fell back a clumsy step and dragged Charles with him. He made sure Hamilton—who, unlike the rest of them, wore body armour—was between them and the door. There was nothing he could do for James.

  “It’s Officer Hamilton,” an unknown, authoritative voice called out.

  Hamilton visibly relaxed at the words.

  “Check him, just to be sure.”

  Curiosity overcame caution and Harlan shifted just enough so he could peer around Hamilton. At first he couldn’t make out anything but bright flashes of red, blue and white, lighting the many emergency vehicles and uniformed people surrounding them. All three departments—fire, ambulance and police—were represented, a row of heavily armed police officers making up the first rank and guarding the exit. They stood behind a line of wooden sawhorses.

  Two people broke away from the group and approached—one was a uniformed officer with her weapon drawn, the other an unassuming middle-aged East Asian man wearing a sweater under a bulletproof vest. He had his chin tucked almost to his chest, as though he could duck under the chaos around him. He approached James and Hamilton slowly, his backup covering him, and blinked in a way Harlan recognized. Harlan assumed he was another police medium.

  “They’re clean,” the strange medium—this must be Benjamin—murmured, barely loud enough to be heard over the activity behind him. His gaze lingered on James’ face a little too long and he paled.

  Two more uniformed officers hurried forward. One carefully took James from Hamilton, while the other ushered Hamilton back behind the safety of the barricades.

  Still supporting Charles, Harlan stepped forward to join them, only for the original officer to firmly plant her palm in the middle of his chest. He was alarmed for a moment, until he noticed the medium was staring at him, his eyes unfocused. Of course—he had to ensure they weren’t possessed or otherwise spiritually infected.

  After the medium nodded, another officer stepped forward and took Charles from Harlan. Harlan struggled briefly—after going through all of that, he never wanted Charles out of his sight again—but then a paramedic was gently guiding him away from that fucking department store and into an ambulance.

  He could see Hamilton sitting in a second ambulance.

  James, lying on a gurney, was being loaded into a third.

  Harlan was a little surprised that none of the paramedics were visibly reacting to the horrific, mummified patch on James’ face, but he reasoned they must get some sort of sensitivity training.

  Or maybe they’d seen worse. He shuddered at the thought, watching James’ ambulance speed off, the siren wailing.

  Charles was also loaded onto a gurney and into an ambulance, which sped away before Harlan could protest that he wanted to go with him.

  Harlan couldn’t hear what Hamilton was saying, could just see him grimly nodding and shaking his head in response to the questions a plainclothes officer was asking him until the paramedics shooed her away. They wrapped Hamilton in a blanket and started assessing his injuries.

  Hamilton caught Harlan’s glance and rolled his eyes. He lifted a corner of the blanket and shook his head in mock disgust, flinching when one of the ambulance attendants probed his broken arm.

  Harlan was concerned he’d be questioned as well. At this point, he wasn’t sure if he could tell someone his own name, never mind a coherent summary of what had happened. He saw Beth, the medium who’d been sent to deal with the ghost in his apartment, running towards his ambulance. She looked
ready to kill him. Fortunately, the paramedics intervened for him, cutting her off before she reached him. He’d probably be questioned later, but for now it was a relief to sit quietly and let them examine him.

  After carefully checking his wrist and making sure he could move both hands, they gave him an IV. Soon his eyelids felt pleasantly heavy, and he was happy to let them droop shut. The last thing he saw before the gentle darkness overtook him was Hamilton trying to climb out of his ambulance while a paramedic gestured for him to stay put.

  * * * *

  When he opened his eyes in a hospital room, Harlan was a little disappointed that he didn’t see Charles standing over him. Then he remembered how badly hurt Charles was, and he tried to roll out of bed. He needed to see Charles immediately, to find out for himself that he was all right.

  A lance of pain shot up his arm and he curled around it protectively. He wasn’t a stranger to pain—no one who worked with ghosts was—but he’d never been physically injured like this before. This was a whole new, unexplored plateau of pain, one that he very badly wanted to retreat from and never visit again.

  His whole body hurt, a dull ache like he’d overextended every single muscle he had, including several whose existence he hadn’t known about until now.

  He dimly remembered waking in the middle of the night because he had to pee, stumbling to the bathroom with the help of a nurse, but he’d fallen asleep again as soon as he hit the sheets.

  “Careful… You’ll pull out your IV.” The sound of shuffling papers, then Hamilton was standing at his side.

  Harlan had never been so glad to see Hamilton—to see anyone—in his life. He opened his mouth to speak, but there were too many thoughts, too many emotions.

  “Hey, it’s all right. No one expects you to… You went through a lot.” Hamilton reached down and awkwardly patted Harlan’s hand on the knuckles, below the IV. He had a cut across the bridge of his nose and his jaw was bruised.

  “You’re okay?” Harlan finally managed. He hardly recognized his voice. It was hoarse and gravelly and sounded decades older than him. His throat hurt, like he’d been screaming, and he wasn’t entirely certain he hadn’t at some point.