G is for Ghosts

by Rhonda Parrish

  He’d lied. When Grace found him on the streets, she’d wanted to take him to the police and find his family—a deathwalker with a good Samaritan complex. He’d begged her not to, fabricating all the reasons why he couldn’t go home, beginning with his father’s fists and ending with his father’s nightly visits. An eighteen-year-old with her own tragic backstory, Grace had believed him and Seth had kept lying. To her, to the Council, to Tamara… to himself.

  “I’ll still need to do the extraction,” Tamara said. “It’s more powerful when it’s fresh.”

  “You’re not taking it.”

  “We had an agreement.” Her tone turned flinty as she retracted her hand.

  He stood up, retrieved his shirt and adjusted his trousers. “You should go.”

  “That’s not how this works,” Tamara said. “I’m sorry if it was too much, but you have a debt to pay.”

  “I’ll find another way.”

  “You don’t get to decide that.”

  “Then you’ll have to take it by force.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she said, arms folded and a frown on her face. “If only it didn’t damage the product. Not to mention it could kill you.”

  “You’d be doing the world a favour.”

  “Melodrama doesn’t become you.” Tamara stood up. In boots, she was taller. She stared Seth in the eyes, magic crackling static through her black hair and dancing in blue sparks down her arms. “Keep it and it’ll be your last,” she said. “No more petals, and no more fine-tuned murders getting you hard. I’ll make sure the Council sticks you in some boring fucking borough full of old age homes.”

  Seth’s hand twitched. How badly he wanted to close his fingers around Tamara’s throat, but there was a voice in his head, louder than the rest, telling him not to do it. A tone of voice he’d never been able to disobey.

  “So be it,” Seth said through gritted teeth.

  “You’ll regret this!” Tamara said.

  Seth watched her leave. She stopped at the door to rifle through his trench. She held up the tin pillbox before slipping it into her own jacket pocket.

  Tamara opened the door and stood on the threshold. “Last chance,” she said.

  Seth said nothing, his body trembling, hands clenched into fists as the ghost in his head continued giving orders.

  “Fine.” Tamara sneered. “Won’t take long for you to come groveling for forgiveness.”

  The door slammed shut and Seth crumpled to the floor. The ghosts sang in a dissonant symphony he no longer had the means to silence. He was forced to listen.

  The memories swarmed, ripping at his consciousness with fangs and talons, a thousand beating wings leaving his mind bruised. He drifted in the tumult, letting the phantoms rake their claws across the insides of his skull.

  He deserved it.

  And through the furor, came another sudden death. Somewhere in his district a trigger was pulled; a bullet tore through a heart.

  Pain ignited in his chest as the world turned burgundy, and—with his father’s voice in his head—this time, Seth tried not to enjoy it.

  I is for Iniquity

  Michael M. Jones

  “This is the last time I let you pick out our costumes,” I grumbled as we made our way down Caravan Street, dodging festive families and over-beveraged college students, all of whom had come out for some early evening Halloween fun. As we wandered, we passed everything from fairy princesses, superheroes, and pirates to… slutty fairy princesses, superheroes, and pirates. Not that I should judge. I’ve worn some questionable things in my time. “I mean, I had a perfectly good Ghostbusters rig, remember? From when we first met?”

  Daphne laughed. “How can I forget, Camille? That’s one of the first things which attracted me to you, even before I tried to use your brain to unlock the secrets of the multiverse. I recognized a kindred spirit, even if your gear wasn’t at all scientifically plausible.” As a mad scientist from a parallel timeline, Daphne had very strong opinions on what was—and wasn’t—scientifically plausible, as well as an enthusiastically flexible set of ethics and a loose grasp on what constituted good ideas. Life with her was never dull.

  I tugged at the green scarf around my neck. “So remind me again why you get to be Velma, when you’re already named Daphne?”

  She leaned down to kiss the top of my head. “Simple. I’ve got the curves and the brains to play her. Plus, you look amazing in purple.”

  She had a point; she was short, curvy, and pale-skinned. Decked out in the iconic orange sweater and brown skirt, with her long blonde hair tucked under a brown wig, she made a more-than-passable Velma, even if her glasses looked suspiciously like steampunk goggles. Meanwhile, I was taller, leaner, and knew how to rock a purple minidress and matching shoes, along with the aforementioned green scarf. I even had a red wig, which had previously seen service in half a dozen other costumes—everyone from Amy Pond to Mary Jane Watson.

  For the occasion, we’d gone so far as to decorate my wheelchair like the Mystery Machine, complete with a temporary blue and green paint job and red flowers on the wheels. I still didn’t feel like letting the matter die quite yet. “But we’re hunting ghosts tonight,” I pointed out, not for the first time. “The Ghostbusters are more appropriate.”

  “Yes, but none of them had the chemistry together that our ladies do, and as you told me, before the end of the night we’ll be shocking the neighbors with unseemly displays of affection,” Daphne teased. She ran her fingers through my hair, and I shivered. Curse that woman, she knew how to distract me with a touch. “It’s a shame Mr. Farnsworth didn’t want to cooperate. I wanted to test out my upgraded holographic projection unit by turning him into a Great Dane.”

  Mr. Farnsworth, our much-put-upon cat, had taken one look at Daphne’s new toy and fled for the safety of his cat house, which, thanks to her recent foray into pocket dimensions, was much bigger on the inside than it seemed. It seemed he still remembered the HPU from the octopus incident, and who could blame him? Our cat has seen some seriously weird shit.

  Tonight’s escapade had started with a particularly heated debate, where I’d upheld my belief in ghosts. “I’m telling you, when I was in third grade, we lived in a house haunted by an old woman who’d died suspiciously in her sleep, and she still appeared in the kitchen to bake phantom cookies,” I’d told Daphne.

  “Nonsense. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all so-called ghostly phenomena,” was her reply. She then went on to list a dozen said reasons, which started with “harmonic memory ancestral records,” included “time travel echoes” and finished with “trans-dimensional etheric projections.” I might be paraphrasing a little, but you get the idea. How she could accept those possibilities, and not “restless spirits of the dearly departed,” I’d never know. Mad scientists are so weird.

  Finally, she announced that she would prove there’s no such thing as ghosts, and vanished into her laboratory for several days, where her only company was ominous noises, strange smells, and the crackle of ozone. (In other words, normal behavior for her.) When she finally emerged, she informed me that on Halloween, we were going ghost hunting.

  “Fine,” I said. “And after that, we’re going to a party over at Morningside, where we’ll drink and shock my friends with appalling displays of affection.” Morningside was a residence hall over at Tuesday University which housed the weirdest and wildest of their grad students, and was known for throwing legendary Halloween parties. As a perpetual grad student myself, I felt right at home over there, even if I preferred off-campus housing.

  Daphne and I had sealed our deal with a kiss and a little more… and a week later, here we were. On Caravan Street, dressed as two of the Scooby Gang, hunting ghosts.

  Outside of The Smooth Mooove Drink Stop, which quite naturally specialized in shakes and smoothies, the owner had set up a table where, for the price of a “trick or treat,” you could get hot apple cider. While I paid the toll fo
r tasty refreshment for us both, Daphne got to work. First, she activated her goggles by pressing a small button on the side, which caused them to hum quietly and light up an odd sort of greenish-yellow, and then she removed a small device from her pockets which was the spitting image of a Ghostbusters’ P.K.E. meter.

  “Hey,” I said when I saw what she was holding. “Isn’t that mine?” I’d built one as part of my Victorian-era cosplay outfit, but hadn’t seen it in a while. I thought it had gone missing during one of our moves over the past few years.

  “It was yours,” Daphne agreed cheerfully, “but in your hands, it was but a toy. I’ve actually turned it into a working replica.”

  “How can you make a working replica of something that doesn’t exist? No, wait, I don’t need to know. It doesn’t run on plutonium, does it?”

  “I… shouldn’t answer that.” Daphne deferred quickly. She spun in a slow circle, sweeping the area with her meter, which hummed and crackled as it did its job. That’s one thing about Halloween: you can act even weirder than usual in plain sight, and no one even bats an eye. A wandering pack of frat bros in togas (seriously?) even whistled and complemented us on our costumes as they migrated from one party to the next.

  “So how exactly is this supposed to prove your point, anyway?” I asked her. I’d tucked our apple ciders into the convenient pop-out cupholders she’d installed in my wheelchair when I grumbled about always having to hold her drink while she “scienced” whenever a wild theory struck her.

  “If there’s any unusual activity at all around us, this will pick it up. As you might put it, we’ll detect the weird stuff, track it down, and disprove it,” Daphne said chipperly. “Quite simple, really. And once I’ve found a solid scientific explanation for your ghosts, we’ll be free to go to your party.”

  I eyed Daphne, chattering away as she waved her Ghostbusters meter while wearing a Velma outfit. “Right now, you’re mixing fandoms and honestly, it’s really sexy,” I told her.

  She blushed faintly. “Science now, fun later.” The meter suddenly pinged! in that way such things do when they’ve done their job properly. (Look, after living with Daphne for so long, I’m totally an expert. Around her, everything dings. Everything.) “See? I have something!” And away she scurried down the sidewalk, lured by the siren song of the unknown. I quickly tossed the last of the cider into a trashcan and wheeled after her. The things we do for love.

  After a few blocks of dodging people and abrupt turns Daphne stopped in front of an old storefront at the intersection of Hope and Nightingale, there on the outskirts of the Gaslight District. In its heyday, it had been a market of some sort, taking up a good portion of the block; now, a huge sign above the entrance read PROFESSOR PEYTON PECULIAR’S SPECTACULARLY SINISTER SPOOKSHOW, in lurid red letters. A poster on one of the boarded-up windows read “Come see the greatest assemblage of ghosts ever captured and put on display! Marvel as urban legends and campfire stories come to (un)life in front of your very eyes! Shudder and fear for your very souls at this calamitous collection of awesome apparitions and scary spirits!” And then of course, a small sign listed prices for seniors, adults, children, as well as student and military discounts. A blood-red door next to the sign urged us to “Enter… at your own peril.”

  I stared at Daphne, who’d shoved her goggles up onto her forehead to better read the signs. “Good job,” I told her. “You found the sleazy boardwalk equivalent of a haunted house. Which is amazing since we’re hundreds of miles from the beach.” I looked back at the Spookshow. “I wonder where this came from. And how long it’s been here. I know I’ve never seen it before.”

  Daphne beamed at me. “This is where the trail led, sweetie. And it appears as though the good Professor loves alliteration almost as much as you! Shall we?”

  I just shook my head with a rueful chuckle. “Sure. Might as well. It better be handicap accessible though, or I’m going to be really annoyed.”

  Five minutes later, after buying a pair of ridiculously overpriced tickets (even with my student discount) from a bored-looking teenager who’d gone for the Beetlejuice look with pale makeup and a fright wig, Daphne and I were allowed to pass through a swinging door, and into the Spookshow.

  The interior was a cross between a wax museum and a zoo. The extensive space had been turned dark and claustrophobic, with walls set up to create a mazelike experience, and dim lights hanging from the ceiling. A thin mist rolled around our feet, in what I considered to be a nice atmospheric touch.

  As we progressed, we found the exhibits. Each one was set up like a small habitat, with sheets of glass to keep us from getting too close. The first was marked “The Phantom Hitchhiker,” and inside it, a translucent man in his mid-30s, dressed in ‘70s clothes and carrying a backpack, paced back and forth. He didn’t seem to notice us.

  “Hologram,” said Daphne confidently. I just arched an eyebrow. “What? They can do wonders with holograms. Very lifelike, these days. Don’t you lot even use them to bring popular musicians back from the dead for performances now?”

  I just sighed, and kept rolling on to the next one. “The Homecoming Date” was a young woman in her late teens, wearing a blood-splattered formal dress, who knelt in her room, weeping endless tears which never quite hit the floor. I shivered, despite myself. I didn’t even need to read the accompanying placard that told us her story. I’d heard it while growing up. Girl gets dumped by her boyfriend at the big dance, leaves early, never makes it home, but is sighted outside the school every year around the same time? Yikes. I looked at Daphne, daring her to explain this one away. “Mirrors,” she stated. “With the right refraction, you can make an actor look see-through.”

  And so we went on. We looked at the Lady in Red, the Twins in the Inn, the Witch of the Well, the Briar Mountain Miner, the Bluefield Howler, and more. Spectral oddities supposedly captured from all corners of the United States, caught in their cycles of grief and despair, restless and unresponsive in their tiny glass cages. Daphne had a potential explanation for each one, though she was growing more hesitant as we wound our way through the maze. The mist had grown thicker and colder, the lights dimmer, and there was a low moaning just within the range of hearing.

  I had to hand it to “Professor Peyton Peculiar.” It was a hell of an attraction, and creepy as fuck. I reached out, grabbing Daphne’s hand. “I don’t like this,” I said. “Please prove ghosts aren’t real, so we can get out of here.”

  Daphne smiled, and leaned in to kiss me. For a moment, I took comfort from her warmth and presence, the reality of her existence. “My pleasure,” she said, sounding almost relieved as she lowered her toggles and again activated them. The weird greenish glow of the goggles gave her an otherworldly appearance in the dim, misty conditions, which didn’t do much to reassure me. I think she’d forgotten why we were here for a moment.

  I took a deep breath, and rolled to the next exhibit. “The Gaslight Ghost,” it read. Inside was a young blonde woman in her mid-20’s, wearing a sky-blue sundress. Two things caught my attention. First, she started pounding on the glass and yelling soundlessly when she saw us, as if crying for help. Second, I knew her. I’d met her. “Daphne, come here,” I urged.

  Daphne bustled over. “Camille, you won’t believe this, the etheric and psychokinetic levels in here are off the charts. My meter’s going haywire, and—what’s wrong?”

  I pointed at the girl. “I know her. I—she dated a friend of mine for a while before she vanished a few years ago. Just up and disappeared during an outing to the Gaslight Distract, and it was like… everyone forgot she ever existed. I had, until now. It’s like I had a gap in my memory, and someone plugged in a missing piece.” On the other side of the glass, Rebecca’s eyes widened, and she mouthed my name with something like surprise. I glanced at the placard explaining the legend behind the so-called Gaslight Ghost. “Captured right here in Puxhill, just a few days ago, by the esteemed Professor Peyton Peculiar,” I read out loud. “Da
phne, this is beyond weird.”

  “Oh, I’ll say. Her readings don’t make any sense whatsoever.” Daphne waved the meter at Rebecca, and it pinged and beeped furiously, before starting to smoke. “Oh no!”

  “No, it’s more than that. She sees us, she knows me. The rest didn’t even respond, but she—we need to get her out!” I insisted.

  “Are you sure… she’s not just a really convincing actor?” Daphne tried, in a last-ditch effort to make sense of things. I gave her a withering look. “Right, then. Give me some room to work.”

  I rolled backwards, so Daphne could inspect the enclosure up close. She tucked the malfunctioning meter away, and drew out a small scanner— “Is that a Mark X tricorder?” I asked.

  “It’s such an elegant design! Definitely my favorite of all the variants,” she said happily. “Now let me focus, sweetheart. There’s some awfully interestingly strange stuff going on here. The glass is laced with microfilaments carrying some sort of alternating etheric current—is this an alarm system? No, it’s for containment. Whatever these ghosts really are, this must be how the Professor is keeping them caged.”

  While Daphne continued to mix-and-match fandoms, I tried to give Rebecca a reassuring smile. “Hang on,” I mouthed back to her. Rebecca glanced between me and Daphne, curiously. I shrugged. My girlfriend was awfully hard to explain sometimes. Right now, she was running her tricorder along the edges of the glass, taking measurements, and muttering to herself. And after all this time, I still don’t speak a fraction of the Science! that Daphne does.

  I didn’t even comment when she revealed her homebuilt version of a sonic screwdriver, and started to do… stuff all around the glass, working from top to bottom, side to side. “Almost,” Daphne said. “There. Give me a hand with this, will you?” And together, we slowly, carefully, eased the large glass pane aside, resting it against the closest wall.

  “Thank you!” Rebecca exclaimed, stepping out of her exhibit. “Good grief, that was awful. It was like swimming in cotton—hard to move, and impossible to make any sound. It was almost suffocating in there. Ugh.”