Body of Ash

by Eli Constant

  “If it’s structurally fine, we can go up to the apartment first?” I question, pushing away from the car and striding across the street. I don’t even look to see if cars are coming, and I’m surprised Terrance doesn’t comment on my lack of care.

  “Yeah,” he responds quietly, a hint of suspicion in his voice, as if he can tell something has just struck me.

  I lead the way around to the back, not bothering with the front door that goes into the restaurant. Here are the exterior stairs that lead upwards to the apartment, though Terrance said on the drive over that there are also interior stairs that led to a dryer and washer—used jointly by the restaurant for linens and the apartment for daily needs.

  The climb is a creaky one, and I don’t think that has anything to do with the fire. I wonder for a moment about the maintenance. This could have been an accident, if the condition of these stairs were any indication. But it wasn’t an accident. I remind myself mentally.

  “We thought maybe it was a hate crime you know,” Terrance says behind me, his voice pitched only loud enough for us to hear. “I think that’s why it got to me so badly.”

  I nod, but I don’t respond. I don’t know how to respond. In my own way, I know what hate is like—hate for being what you are, how you’re born—but at the same time, my condition is not his condition, and vice versa.

  “I mean, the kids were bad enough. Dead kids always kill you. It’s like a piece of your damn soul dies when you have to deal with the homicide of a child. But when I thought it was a hate crime...” he lets his voice trail off. “But now I know it was some supernatural bullshit, and dammit I’m not sure that’s any better.”

  Now, as I’m stood at the top of the landing waiting for Terrance to unlock the door, I do respond. “I don’t think supernatural is worse than hate, Terrance.” I can’t help the coolness in my voice.

  “When it takes the lives of innocent humans? It’s at least as bad, Tori.”

  We stare at one another for a moment. It’s the first rift we’ve experienced since I told Terrance what I am. And it was bound to happen. But I’m not dealing with it now.

  I take a deep breath. “Let’s focus on what we’re here for.”

  He doesn’t nod, but he pushes forward and unlocks the door, leaning a bit to swing it open and then falling back to let me enter first. He waits a moment after I enter. I think he still believes he might interfere with my gift.

  As soon as I’m inside, I’m hit with an absence. Of things. Of life. Of warmth. Which is odd, considering the fire that raged below, the smoke that killed the family.

  But this place is well and truly empty of energy.

  “Help me,” I murmur, not sure who I’m talking to. My fingers tingle, feeling like they’re pushed back into the ether once again, which is not something I’ve experienced before. You have to focus, and really intend on reaching into those places, to access them. I scrunch up my hands, making uncomfortable fists, pushing the feeling back. “Help me, if you can.” I don’t want to yank the soul back to me. I just want to see. I want to experience.

  The awfulness that transpired in this place.

  The ‘wind’ that had prodded me outside of the domicile comes to life inside. I hear a gasp behind me as Terrance feels it. “What is that?” He moves a step closer to me, but I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m surrounded by smoke. I’m surrounded by heat. I’m dying again. And this time I’m not touching a body. I’m not calling the blood. I was reaching for vision, and instead I got the reality of darkness.

  I lean over, choking on the nothingness that seems so real. I fall to my knees, and I can feel Terrance at my back, his hand touching my shoulder. He’s calling my name. He’s worried.

  But I’m dying.

  I’m dying again.

  “Nailssssssssssssssssssssssss.” The voice is soft, almost inaudible, but it pushes me to move. I crawl across the floor, leaning further and further towards the charred wood planks, thinking that will save me. Smoke rises. Doesn’t smoke rise?

  That wind arrives again, and it is not a comfort. It shoves against me, with more force than moving air should have on its own. This is a hurricane wind, trapped inside a ruined shell. Suddenly, I feel myself lifted off the ground. The wind is no longer assaulting me, it is raising me inches off the floorboards. It is pushing into me. Absentmindedly, I wonder if this is what possession feels like. The sensation of being emptied without emptiness and being filled without space available to fill. Like a balloon twisted in the middle, slowly un-twisted to move air back and forth. But the shape never changes. It remains the matter it always was, yet it also doesn’t.

  And then I have no thoughts, save for the fire and the terror. And rage. I feel rage.

  My eyes are stinging. I need to find the children. I have to find the children. If I can only get the door open. If I can only get the window open. I hear crying. I hear my wife yelling for my daughter.

  I find my son. He’s hidden under the table we found at the thrift store for five dollars. I pull him to my body and I crawl, dragging him along as gently as I can.

  I find my wife. She is cradling my daughter’s body, which is so still. So very still. “I have to get to the window!” I yell. And it is me yelling, but also someone else. Who is in my mind?

  I have to save my family.

  “I can’t breathe,” I feel my mouth moving, I hear my real voice... hidden behind layers of smoke-choking memories that aren’t my own. “I need air.” Again, my words are muffled. But I know that I’m speaking. The window. I’ll go out the window.

  I begin to frantically crawl. I hear Terrance’s worried voice, but I can’t focus on that. I have to save my family, save myself. I’m nearly there. I know exactly where I’m going, even though I can’t see and my eyes are watering and my face is hot as hell.

  I raise my body into a kneeling position, and I blindly reach out with my hands to find the window sill. There it is. I have to go higher to get the latch.

  My fingers search and I murmur ‘thank God’ when I find the double mechanisms I need to push outward to unlock the window. I’ve got it. In only precious seconds, fresh air will flood in. I’ll be able to breathe and think and save my loved ones.

  Almost smiling, I touch the edge of the window frame below the locks and I push with all my might, not worried over breaking the window by lifting it too hard and quickly. That doesn’t matter.

  But the window doesn’t budge. It won’t move. I know I’ve unlocked it, but it won’t move.

  “Tori!” Terrance yells, for likely the millionth time... I don’t know, so arrested by the spirit’s memories.

  I shove the window one more time, knowing it’s futile, yet I have to try. And then I’m standing, sobbing, blindly trying to see the woman I love and the precious children we share.

  And then, I am falling. On the fall down, my left hand brushes against something hard with a small rounded edge. And the possession loosens, rushing out of me so fast I feel dizzy.

  Chapter Six

  TERRANCE CATCHES ME. He yanks me up into his arms and he carries me out of the apartment and into the fresh, life-affirming air.

  As the clarity of the world slams into me, a wrecking ball of reality, I start coughing and I can’t stop. We’re next to Terrance’s cruiser. He sets me down on the hood and pats my back gently. “Breathe, Tori. You got to breathe, girl.”

  I steady myself against the car and try to take a deep inhalation. It makes the coughing worse at first, but then it begins to settle down.

  “What the hell happened in there?” Terrance takes a step away from me. He’s stood on the curb, his arms crossed over his chest, looking both concerned for me and professionally lost. Despite his supposed acceptance of me, and what I am, he’s still out of his depth with all of this stuff. It still stirs... uncomfortable feelings within him to see the supernatural in action.

  I take another deep breath and I push myself off the hood of the car to stand. I’m only slightly unsteady. Bully fo
r me.

  “When we were out here before, I felt something. A presence. It wanted me to see those upper windows.” I point for effect. He doesn’t turn around though. His eyes are for me right now, no distractions. I can see his cop brain working behind his eyes.

  “And?”

  “And, when we went in, the presence was overwhelming. The father’s spirit I think, though I thought he would be at peace now. I’m worried about him. I worry that...” I let my words trail off. We’re here to solve a murder, which is what Terrance is focusing on. He won’t want to know the details of worrying for a soul. His job is the vessel, my job is the heartbeat behind the heart.

  Terrance quirks an eyebrow and turns away from me to check out the exterior of the building again. “What are you worried about, Tori.” He says it absentmindedly, considering the windows.

  “That the father wants more than to just give us information to help. I’m worried he wants vengeance. And a spirit like that... that lingers and has a singular, dark focus. They turn into something unpleasant.”

  “You told me once that ghosts aren’t the same thing as spirits right?” Terrance takes a few steps away from me now, towards the building.

  “Right... though, I sometimes use spirit, soul, and ghost interchangeably.”

  “You think he’ll get stuck here? Be a ghost?”

  “No, he knows who he is. He has a sense of what life was. He had connections. Ghosts aren’t as common, because they’re truly lost. Amnesiacs if you will. Floating like silver through the air. I think it’ll be worse than that, Terrance. He’s a man who watched his family die, who couldn’t save them. That’s a different level than simple unfinished business. I felt rage inside of me when I was in there. Pure, unfiltered, wrath. He’s feeding the anti-ether and it, in turn, is feeding him.”

  “Anti-ether,” I see Terrance move his hand over his head, pausing at the few wrinkles that gather at the back of his neck when he’s looking up at something. “I don’t know what the hell that is, Tori, but it doesn’t seem pleasant.”

  “It’s not.” I say, and we both fall quiet for a while.

  “So what the hell’s up with the windows?”

  “If you go back and look,” I exhale, steadying myself and my words, “I’m fairly sure you’ll find that they’ve been nailed shut. On the outside.”

  Now Terrance does look at me, and then back at the building, and then back at me. “Son of a bitch.” With that, he strides away from me and towards the building, pulling out his phone. I assume, by his first words to the person who answered his call, that he’s getting ready to chew someone out for missing something so obvious.

  Because he believes me. Without verifying it himself, he believes me. And that causes something warm and fuzzy to grow in my belly. A line might be between us, a line between human and supernatural that we both must toe to operate within our workings together, but despite that... Terrance still sees me as someone to trust.

  Movement down a nearby street draws my attention, but all I catch is a glimpse of orange and the swaying of material as the figure moves. Shadows. And Spirits. And the long-gone-byes of humanity.

  Ghosts everywhere, in waking hours and in sleep.

  While I wait for Terrance to return, I decide to walk to the community garden between two buildings. It is close enough that Terrance will likely be able to see me as he exits the burned building. The flowers are beginning to burst into riotous life. The smell is an aphrodisiac floating through the air like ribbon so sheer it can’t be seen without straining. It is its own sort of mesmeric ghost in the sky. Invisible liquid platinum.

  Slowly, I find my way to a bench. It’s dedicated to a Lisa Hamlin. I wonder if she saw it, if she stuck around in spirit long enough to see this dedication. Or maybe she’s watching now, hopeful the bench in her honor will bring someone joy. I cling to the optimism that people on the other side can still see their loved ones. I dream of it—a crystal ball for each beautiful soul gone past the waiting place, a mirror to the world long-lost, reflecting the lives of those they’ve left.

  Though, my grandmother believed otherwise—that after a person is gone, they can only return of their own volition if they are controlled by rage. Wraiths that return without the magical infusion I must lend to pull kinder souls across. Despite the ache to see a loved one that has gone, you wouldn’t want them to experience the swallowing pain of wraithness. They would hurt you, because love would no longer exist in their body. Ghosts could see, I suppose, because they never leave and they lose themselves to the static cling... but they don’t even know who they are, let alone who their once-loved-ones are. They wouldn’t care if you dedicated a planet to them, let alone a garden bench. It would just be another untouchable nothingness in a world they don’t belong to anymore.

  I think of it as spirit dementia. I’ve watched how that particular illness ruins the mind—because I have trapped a soul back into its physical vessel. I’ve held onto them too long, past the memories and human spark.

  I suppose, in some ways, I’d like my grandmother to be right and me wrong. Unless there’s some sort of fail-safe to keep your relatives from seeing you in explicitly uncomfortable positions. Showering. Your daily constitution on the porcelain throne. In the midst of surprisingly bendy sexual relations.

  I mean, I’d prefer my father not see me in the nude getting my carnal side on. Wouldn’t everyone? I’d hope so...

  I’m still standing, staring at the bench and the woman’s name. My brain feels foggy, a bit overcome by the floral and herbal scents all around. Sitting down, I close my eyes and I lean my head back so I can focus only on the smells coming from the garden, from all the flowers around me. They’re so fragrant, so life-affirming. Doing so doesn’t help clear my head. That’s this time of year though—the warmth, the life growing. It is the very definition of new beginnings.

  Something catches my interest. One particular scent forcing its way through the patchwork quilt of the others. I open my eyes and stand. I walk aimlessly, my sense of smell dampened by using my eyesight once again.

  “Where are you?” I mutter as my gaze roves over the perfectly-designed beds of flowers and greenery. So many colors. Finally, I find it. Hidden in the lavender. Blue Vervain. It’s inconspicuous, its purplish flowers hidden in the loads of fragrant lavender. I lean down and pick a sprig of it and hold it to my nose. It has no scent. Nothing I can smell right now, with the flowers basically shoved up my nose. “That’s odd...” my voice trails off and I start walking a little again. It’s not my nose that alerts me to the next odd plant in the community garden.

  It’s my power.

  Monk’s Hood. Or, in some circles, Wolfsbane. Not far after that find is a small patch of Foxglove hidden in the folds of a Buckthorn bush that is beginning to sprout its telltale glossy, dark purple fruit.

  I move in a circle, taking in the expanse of carefully-constructed community garden with more diligence now. And I wonder... who in town is a witch. Because this isn’t just any old garden. This is a spell waiting to happen. I’ve lived in Bonneau all of my life. The garden was constructed five years ago. How long have witches resided here? Always?

  If there’s a witch’s garden, then... I move towards one of the only large trees in the garden. It stretches up to the sky with leafy fingers on narrow branches. I find what I’m looking for quickly. The tiny symbol carved into the bark, kept freshly cut for protection. And beside that—the crest for a pixie clan. Not a crest like you’d see in Scotland or the likes. No, this is just a simple wearing-away of wood in a specific pattern. And to any pixie, it will shine as warning.

  These are things I’ve only read about in my grandmother’s journals or, more recently, talked to Liam about. A hundred bucks says Liam has known, all along, that this garden houses a pixie familiar.

  “Beautiful day isn’t it, Blud-ah Vas?” A voice, melodic and somehow as drowsy as the warm spring, comes to life behind me. I startle and turn around. I try to remember what she’s said, b
ut the letters and sounds are a jumble.

  The speaker is a tall woman with orange-red hair sweeping down her back in a long ponytail. Freckles so pale they’re nearly nonexistent play across her face. She’s so familiar, but I cannot place her. Her clothing is the kind of loose flowing linen you expect to see on rich folks in Malibu. I want to keep studying her, to remember her completely—it’s not an urge I understand. Yet, I cannot focus further. I am only able to cling to her hair color, those freckles, her height... which for some reason feels wrong. She should not be so tall.

  “What?” The word falls out of my mouth almost incoherently. “What did you say?”

  “I said it’s a beautiful day.” She walked towards me, but her gaze was trained behind me at the tree and its pixie mark.

  “Yes... yes it is.” I move forwards as she continues to draw nearer. We brush shoulders as we pass, strangers among flowers rather than ships in the night.

  “This garden is a bounty.” The woman is close to the tree now and she reaches out and brushes her fingers against the pixie mark. She pulls her hand back quickly as if shocked. Because she had been shocked—pixies are small, but they are not to be trifled with.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I say, trying to sound casual.

  “Yes you do, Blud-ah Vas,” she turns and smiles wide.

  That name... she’s said it before. Remember it. Remember it. I try desperately to cling to the name, to try and figure out the language. “What did you just call me?” The scents in the garden assault me once more, with less gentle spring kindness than before.

  An arm links mine and I am gently guided back to the garden bench. My head tips against the hard edge of its back after I sit. The world is lost to me for a moment. Or am I lost to it? God, there is a beauty in being forgotten. Ether beyond, there is a dear satisfaction in letting the truth of everything slip by as if you are stood above it on an untouchable bridge.