The Haunting of Tram Car 015 (Dead Djinn Universe)

by P. Djèlí Clark

  Hamed held his breath, overcome with a sinking feeling of helplessness, when at the last moment, their tram switched sharply to another line. The other tram passed by at an angle, moving away at rapid speed. But Hamed could still see the faces of its terrified passengers, no doubt drenched in the same cold sweat as he was. On hearing the spirit cackle again, he found his fear turning to anger. Looking up, he searched along the walls until he found a dangling handle on a chain in the corner. With effort, he raised himself up along the pole, and began making his way to it.

  He took barely controlled steps toward the pulley, holding onto the backs of bolted chairs or whatever he could to draw himself forward. The tram’s speed didn’t help, nor did its switching lines twice again. But he was determined to get there, spurred on by the infuriating laughter of the spirit. It was one thing to place their lives in danger. But now this monster thought it could come to his city and cause such mayhem! That he wasn’t having! At last close enough, he extended a hand and tried for the pulley. He missed on the first attempt, and nearly fell back on the second—but on the third try he got his fingers firmly around it and pulled.

  He held to the back of a seat as the car slowed to a grinding stop. There was the sound of engines dying then humming back to life. When the car moved again, it was in the opposite direction. The pulley was created for emergencies. It rerouted the tram to return home, making that its sole priority. With some fast turns, it switched lines, finding the unused circuit and heading back to Ramses Station. The al reacted in fury to this intervention, trying desperately to make the car go the way she wanted. But the tram refused, keeping to its predetermined course.

  “It’s done!” Hamed told her. He’d gotten hold of the dagger again and held it before him. On the other side, Onsi had recovered and stood waiting. “You might as well give over!”

  The al glared at him, baring her jagged teeth in contempt. In a blur she disappeared, becoming smoke again and entering the clockwork gears. The grating sound of her voice thundered throughout the car and it shook violently. Hamed recognized it quickly, even in the unfamiliar language—a curse. She was cursing the tram. Sparks erupted from the gears as once again the car picked up speed. It raced along the cable, setting off a high-pitched squeal and endless blue bolts of electricity. As he saw Ramses Station appearing rapidly through the front windows, he realized with dread what the al was planning.

  “Grab onto something!” he yelled to Onsi, as he did the same. “She’s going to crash—!”

  Hamed never finished his warning as the world turned violently upside down. He was spinning about, striking bolted down furniture as he tried to keep his limbs drawn in close. Nothing made sense, and he could barely tell what was happening. There was a terrific clamor of noise and a jarring sensation that made even his teeth shake—then finally came quiet and stillness.

  Blinking, Hamed lifted his head to look about the tram, trying to figure out how the chairs had gotten onto the ceiling. It took a moment to make out that it wasn’t the ceiling he was looking at, and that the chairs were where they’d always been. The car had reached the platform but had been wrenched off its pulley. It now appeared to be laying on its side and he was squeezed between two seats where he’d landed. Everything hurt, but as he checked, nothing appeared to be broken. He was gathering his voice to call out for Onsi when a set of long claws gripped the seats above him and a ghastly face emerged to peer down.

  The hag grinned in triumph. Hamed tried to lift the dagger he’d managed somehow to hold onto, but couldn’t bring it to bear at this angle. The al cackled and hissed, bending her shriveled head closer so that it was only inches from his own. Her breath, so cold it left flakes of ice on his moustache, held a fetid stink that filled his nostrils. He braced for an attack from those savage jaws, but abruptly the spirit lifted up, listening.

  Hamed listened too. As his senses returned he could just make out a sound—a steady chanting that seemed to be building. The voices of women. Hundreds of women, gathered on the station floor. The al let out an eager cry and in a blur had become smoke again. It shot up through the smashed windows of the tram directly above and disappeared.

  “Onsi!” Hamed cried out hoarsely. “Onsi! Are you alright?”

  “Here!” the man groaned from nearby. “Roughed up, but I can manage. And you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he answered back, struggling to rise.

  “The spirit!” Onsi called. “I fear it’s gone—”

  “I know.” Hamed grit his teeth. They had succeeded in exorcising the al from Tram 015, only to send it into a sea of unsuspecting women below.

  * * *

  It seemed to take a painfully long time to extricate themselves from the overturned tram car as Hamed fretted. Then the ride down in the lift took interminable minutes more. He paced in place, counting down the floor numbers on the dial above. In his head, he scolded himself for not taking the stairs, though he knew that would have only taken longer. It was just his worry talking, but he had reason to be anxious. When the silver doors of the lift finally opened he bounded out, pushing past the boilerplate eunuch attendant and bracing for nothing less than blood and mayhem.

  The floor of Ramses Station had grown more crowded, if that was possible. There were people everywhere—women, in the main, with some men who had joined them and a few djinn. They filled the hall and upper balconies, chanting and waving signs, some of them with slogans painted on their hands and cheeks. It was with relief that the horror he’d expected to find hadn’t come to pass. He didn’t doubt the al was here. It wouldn’t be able to help itself, not with this many women around. But maybe it had decided subtlety was best.

  “How will we ever find it in all of this?” Onsi lamented.

  “We’re investigators,” Hamed told him, already scanning the vast crowds. “We’re trained to see what other people would just pass by. Don’t look at everything. There’s too much. Instead, try to find what doesn’t belong. What doesn’t fit in.”

  “What doesn’t belong,” Onsi muttered. He repeated it like a mantra until exclaiming, “Oh! There!”

  Hamed nodded, impressed with the younger man’s acuity. He’d made out the spirit too, somewhere further in, close to the feet of the colossal statue of the pharaoh Ramses. It had taken the form of the girl, whose pale skin and bone-white slip assuredly looked out of place. She walked the floor of the hall barefoot, drinking in everything with her mouth parted in wonder. Women everywhere, as far as those hungry black eyes could see. She must have felt like a child let loose in a sweetshop, Hamed thought darkly. Reaching for the dagger in his dress, he started forward.

  At least he tried to. Only their path was blocked by the sheer mass of people. They attempted to push through, but made little progress. He was wondering how’d they’d ever make their way when Onsi began shouting in a high voice.

  “Can’t you see there are women with child here?” he cried. “Have Cairenes lost all manners? What a scandal! Will no one let us pass?”

  Hamed stared in open admiration. The man really threw himself into a role! He’d almost forgotten they were still in their garb—and veiled at that. The dramatic appeals worked. People parted for them, admonishing those who didn’t move fast enough. Soon they had a clear path directly toward the al. But what he now saw made the pit of his stomach go hollow.

  The al had chosen her prey: a woman who stood somewhat apart, watching the crowds and holding a swaddled baby in her arms. Stopping beside her, the spirit began her ritual, smiling and cooing at the infant. Looking down at the girl, the woman smiled, and bent slightly to show the face of her newborn. The al’s eyes widened. Cradling her thin arms, she rocked them back and forth before the woman with a querying look. Hamed moved faster, shouting and struggling to be heard above the cacophony as his heart pounded in panic.

  But his warning was unneeded.

  Perhaps it was the strangeness of the pale silver-haired girl. Or just a mother’s instinct. But the woman drew back and sho
ok her head politely. She turned away and resumed looking at the crowd. Undaunted, the al reached out and tugged at her arm, still smiling inquisitively. The woman pulled away and this time retorted with words and a look that didn’t appear at all polite. The spirit’s smile vanished at that, storming over to anger. In a blur, she changed.

  The hag that towered in the girl’s place looked more frightening in the light that shined through the plain glass windows of Ramses Station than it had in the gloom of the tram. Her pale gray skin looked as if it had been stretched too taut over her elongated body, where ribs and clavicle showed beneath. Rounded bumps of bone lined her spine, leading to legs that bent back like the hindquarters of an animal. She swung an empty rotted gaze above the heads of the crowd, opening her jaws wide—and screeched.

  The mother with her infant, who had watched the horror unfold mere feet away, screamed. So too did anyone else who happened to be near, many of them running and staggering away from the al. The spirit’s wail had cut across the chanting in the hall, echoing even louder in the wide space and sending many to clutching their ears. When they recovered to catch sight of the nightmare in their midst, the whole crowd, as if sharing one mind, began to back away.

  Hamed and Onsi fought harder to move forward now, amid bodies desperately pushing in the opposite direction. But it was little use; they were dragged along like a tide. Near the al, only one person was left. Hamed saw to his horror that it was the mother and infant. The woman stood rooted to the spot, gripped by fear. Her arms clutched her infant protectively, eyes fixed on the looming danger. Having secured her prey, the hag turned back to the woman in triumph and all but salivated at the baby in her arms.

  Hamed lifted his dagger. It was an impossible throw, but if he could just strike the spirit that might be enough. He stumbled to get his footing so he could brace himself properly and said a prayer to the most Merciful and Beneficent God to make his aim true.

  But someone was suddenly in his way.

  It was another woman, wearing a long black gallabiyah over her plump frame. She’d run up to stand behind the al and was shouting. The hag twisted its neck around and gave a short screeching burst in threat. But the woman stood her ground, holding up an object fastened to a necklace. It was a hamsa, Hamed recognized in surprise—a blue painted amulet shaped like the open palm of the right hand with an eye in the center. An old symbol, it was still popular in the countryside as a protective against evil. The woman was wielding it now like a weapon and calling out surahs at the top of her lungs.

  The al turned fully now, lifting one of those massive clawed hands to cut down the bothersome interloper. But from out of the crowd, another woman appeared—this one in colorful Nubian prints. She held up an open palm, where a hamsa had been inscribed in henna, and added her own unwavering voice. Hamed watched in astonishment as more women ran forward, joining in chanting at the spirit and making warding gestures with their hands. One younger woman had gotten directly in front of the stricken mother, taking off her stylish Parisian hat covered in blue ostrich feathers and shaking it before the hag’s face.

  The spirit turned this way and that, hissing and raising her claws menacingly. But she seemed stunned by the show of these bold women, who had banded together to protect one of their own. And that was precisely what Hamed needed.

  Many in the crowd had stopped to watch the odd happenings, and he had been able to push forward, finally breaking through to the front. Running up on his heeled shoes, he kept to the back of the bewildered and distracted spirit, staying out of her sight. When he pulled the dagger this time and struck at her exposed back, he didn’t miss.

  The al cried in pain or anger as the blade scored a length across the bones of her spine. Where the iron cut skin, acrid gray smoke rose up. She flung out a thick bony arm, sending Hamed sprawling back across the floor. He heard many in the crowd gasp, some coming to help him, thinking a pregnant woman had been hurt. With their aid, he sat up in time to see the al stalking forward, its hollow gaze seeming to recognize him, that horrid mouth of jagged teeth pulling back in a rictus. Catching his breath, he fought to speak, getting out one word.

  “Stop!”

  The hag went immediately still, poised in mid-step, one clawed hand raised high. Hamed felt a swelling relief as he watched the spirit stand quivering in place. Many of the stories said that once you pricked an al with iron, you could force her to do your bidding. He was overjoyed to see that part of the tale worked. Making it to his feet, he pushed away the hands trying to hold him back and walked up to the spirit. Coming to stand just beneath her tall frame, he stared up and perched on his toes to meet her straining face.

  “Step back,” he ordered crisply.

  The al let loose a harried whine but began to walk backward. Her long limbs moved jerkily, making cracking noises as she went—but go she did. Hamed watched in satisfaction as the hag took up a pose like a statue, arms fixed at her sides even as her face shook in open contempt.

  Onsi came running up then, huffing, his identification held up high as he addressed the shackled spirit: “Under the authority of the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities, we hereby take you into custody for breach of numerous regulations governing paranormal persons and sentient creatures, beginning with Article—!”

  Hamed decided that this time he wouldn’t mind listening to Onsi tick off each violation, but the younger man was interrupted by a girl running into the hall and shouting, her high voice breaking the quiet that had descended. What now, Hamed wondered? Several other people picked up the first cry, carrying and repeating what had been said. It was as the words reached him that the whole of Ramses Station erupted into a deafening cheer.

  “The vote passed! We won! We won!”

  Swept up in the jubilation, Hamed found he was cheering as well.

  EPILOGUE

  It was well into night as Agent Hamed sat typing up his report. The Ministry had emptied early as it always did on a Thursday before the Friday weekend. With the crowds still celebrating in the streets, most of the staff had left well before sunset. Granting suffrage to women had not been a universal sentiment. But now that it was done, hardly a person could be found who had before opposed it. Cairenes were odd that way, part of a city that loved anything which trumpeted its vaunted modernity.

  He had sent Onsi off, despite protestations to stay and help. Hamed had insisted. Who wanted to spend the night after completing their first big case typing up reports? There’d be paperwork enough next week. There was always more paperwork. He read over the review he’d written about the Ministry’s latest recruit, using words like “commendable” and “exceeds expectations.” Maybe this partner thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Pausing in his work, he picked up the copy of Al-Masri he kept nearby. The front of the evening daily read in bold letters: EGYPT’S LADIES GET THE VOTE! Beneath was a photo of two women holding up victory signs. Much of the newspaper was dedicated to the day’s big happenings, but Hamed turned several pages to another story.

  In a corner at the bottom of page four, a photo showed him and Onsi. Still in their dresses and quite veiled, they stood on either side of the grimacing al. The photographer who had captured the image had promised he’d do his best to see it make the paper. There was no story attached, just the words beneath reading: Ministry Agents Capture Ramses Station Fiend. But for Hamed that was more than enough. He smiled as he looked over the grainy image, and pondered whether perhaps he should have it framed. Or would that be too vain? A rap on his door made him hurriedly close the newspaper, looking up to find a familiar but unexpected figure.

  Agent Fatma el-Sha’arawi stood in his doorway. She was resplendent as ever, in a lavender Englishman’s suit and matching vest with a white shirt and a deep purple tie, topped off with a black bowler no less.

  “Good evening, Agent Hamed,” she greeted him pleasantly. “Am I bothering you?”

  “Evening to you, Agent Fatma,” Hamed said, standing and u
nconsciously straightening his uniform. “And no, not a bother at all. Please, come in.” The smaller woman smiled, strolling in on a pair of black and tan wingtips. Hamed fidgeted at his uniform again.

  “I wondered if you were a fan of basbousa?” she asked. Hamed looked to her outstretched hand, only then noticing the small golden cake she held, topped with sugary almonds.

  He smiled back with nod. “I love basbousa.”

  “Great! I thought I’d have to try and eat this all myself.” Whipping off her bowler, she hung it on a peg and pulled up a chair to the front of his desk. Hamed cleared a space and found some clean spoons. In moments, the two were digging into the sweet cake that tasted faintly of orange.

  “I figured you’d be out celebrating tonight,” he said, trying to make appropriate conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d spoken more than greetings.

  Fatma nodded a head of cropped black curls. “That’s what this cake was for. I was supposed to be heading downtown to meet a friend, but had a case that kept me over. And now . . .” She gestured to the report sheets spread about his desk.

  “Paperwork,” they both said at once.

  “What was the case?” he asked, unable to help himself.

  She rolled her eyes, digging out another piece of cake. “Some necromancer thought it’d be a brilliant idea to reanimate a sorcerer buried in the Valley of the Kings, hoping to learn some arcane knowledge. Instead, he brings back the corpse of an ancient pharaoh. I mean it’s called the Valley of the Kings for a reason, right? So, turns out this ancient king is a megalomaniac, and now that he’s back, wants to raise an army of the dead from their tombs and conquer the country. Or the world. I forget. Anyway, managed to seal the dead god-emperor back in his sarcophagus and arrested the necromancer. I hope they charge him with stupidity. That took up the whole day.” She made a face of disgust, then stopped to look at Hamed inquiringly. “How about you? What was your case about?”