G is for Ghosts

by Rhonda Parrish

  “Are you okay?” I asked, before realizing that despite her words, Rebecca was very much see-through and wispy around the edges. “I mean, um…”

  “Yes, I’m a ghost,” she admitted. “It’s a long, weird story. Here in the Gaslight, I actually have more substance and persistence than I would in the real world… kind of like the rest of the spirits that Professor kidnapped.” She spat out the last few words. “Oh, I’ve got a score to settle with him.”

  “What happened?” I asked her. Daphne waved her tricorder at Rebecca, and hmmmed, thoughtfully, before reaching out to poke a finger into—and through—her arm.

  “Hey! Do you mind?” Rebecca chided Daphne. “Just because I’m a ghost doesn’t mean you can take liberties with me.” She glowered and moved away a little.

  “I apologize for Daphne. She gets a little over-excited about things she doesn’t understand,” I said. “Scratch that, she gets over-excited about everything. So how you’d wind up here?”

  Rebecca sighed. “My partner Nat was out on a job, and I was left minding the office in her absence—she’s a private investigator, you see—and this guy came in. Didn’t even say hello before he zapped me with some weird gizmo, and sucked me into what felt like a vacuum cleaner. Next thing I know, I’m in a cage and he’s rubbing his hands about his latest attraction.”

  “A vacuum cleaner,” mused Daphne as she stepped back to rub her chin thoughtfully. “Assuming that your substance is actually some sort of malleable etheric gas that adapts to the environment and reacts to appropriate stimuli, that actually…” she trailed off. “Huh.”

  Rebecca arched an eyebrow, looking to me for translation. I smiled at her. “Mad scientist. It’s a long, weird story. But she knows her stuff, even if now I’m going to have to dissuade her from building ghost traps of her own, just to prove a point.”

  “If I see another ghost trap, I’m finding a way to shove its builder into it. Head-first. And I don’t care if they’ll fit, I’ll make sure of it,” Rebecca grumbled.

  “I don’t blame you. Let’s get you out of here,” I suggested.

  “Not without freeing everyone else, and maybe doing horribly rude things to the Professor!” Rebecca folded her arms defiantly, looking distinctly more solid as she embraced her anger.

  “Daphne, did you hear that? Jailbreak and revenge time!”

  That got her attention. Daphne stopped trying to work out ghost physics in her mind, and gave me a wide, mischievous grin. “Would you like broke, blind, or bedlam?” she asked.

  “How about all three?”

  “Right, it’s done!” And back into her endless pockets she went digging.

  “I will thank you all to stop whatever you are doing, and to cease interfering with my exhibits, lest I be forced to take actions which we’ll all find deeply regrettable!” The booming voice came from behind us, where a tall, gangling figure stood at the end of the corridor, framed by an open door and a blinding amount of sunlight. The exit, I presumed.

  I yelped and lifted a hand to shield my eyes.

  “Oh shit,” said Rebecca.

  “Oh, bother,” said Daphne.

  “Professor Peculiar?” I asked unnecessarily.

  He stepped forward, and the door slammed shut behind him with a disturbing amount of finality. “The one and only,” he proclaimed. “And as much as I am gratified that you ladies appreciate the quality of my Spectacularly Sinister Spookshow, I must insist that you do not try and abscond with the exhibits. That would be highly inconvenient for me. Luckily, I’m prepared to offer you this one-time clemency. Merely leave the Gaslight Ghost behind, and you other two may leave and never return.”

  “And if we say no?” I rolled to the side, putting myself between Rebecca and her would-be captor. Daphne moved up to join me.

  Now that the light was back to its usual level of awfulness and our eyes had recovered, I could see that the Professor was an older man with one of those pretentious handlebar moustache-and-beard combos that were so popular with steampunks, hipsters, and steampunk hipsters. He wore an all-white three-piece suit like a Southern fried preacher and I’d have laughed, if he wasn’t pointing what looked like an angry hairdryer at us. I could tell it was serious by the way Rebecca whimpered, just a little. That had to have been what zapped her. “If you say no,” the Professor replied, “then I will be forced to protect my collection, livelihood, and professional trade secrets at all costs.”

  “You’ll shoot us, hide the bodies, and if we turn into ghosts, add us to the collection,” I translated dourly.

  “A truly unfortunate series of events to be certain, but ultimately necessary.” The Professor flipped a switch on his weapon and it came to life with an unearthly buzzing, strange energy flickering around its edges. “And I do feel like I should inform you that this weapon, capable of stunning spooks, specters, and spirits, has also proven fatal for the more corporeally inclined. My former partner would attest to that, were he not permanently indisposed.”

  “He’s not kidding,” said Daphne, sounding more intrigued than worried as she tried to lean just a little closer. “We have technology like that back home. All kinds of highly regulated, of course. And this model is clearly rudimentary at best, and is… well, calling it a haphazard, sloppy design would be a complement. I’m surprised it hasn’t blown up in his face already.”

  “You’re not helping,” I hissed at her. “Can’t you do something? Please?”

  The Professor cleared his throat. “Ladies, you know I can hear you. You, with the goggles. As you seem to be a woman of science, and the one who successfully dismantled my ghost prison, I’ll thank you to slowly empty your pockets of any and all weapons, gadgets, trinkets, tools, and other such paraphernalia. One wrong move, however, and I’ll be forced to shoot your friend.”

  “Oh, she’s not my friend!” chirped Daphne. “She’s my girlfriend.”

  “Not helping,” I repeated. “Now he knows that shooting me is an effective threat!”

  “Oh no, I’m still the actual threat,” Daphne grinned. “I mean, I’m the one carrying nuclear-powered gadgets, isn’t that right?”

  The Professor swung his weapon back and forth, trying to decide which of us was the bigger—or crazier—threat. Finally, he aimed at Daphne. “Empty your pockets,” he demanded.

  So she complied, pulling an endless array of stuff out of bottomless pockets. Remember the pocket dimension she’d constructed for our cat? She’d also done the same with her clothes. How she kept everything straight, I had no idea. The pile in front of her grew larger with each coil of wiring, or multi-tool, or spare set of goggles she extracted, and the Professor watched with increasing disbelief.

  And that gave me my own window of opportunity. Because while Daphne had given me a lot of cool stuff since we met, and had upgraded my wheelchair with many fascinating and sometimes unnecessary features, there was one modification which I valued above all else.

  While the Professor was distracted, I tapped the side of the wheelchair in just the right fashion, causing a small compartment to open, and a small weapon dropped into my hand. And before Professor Peculiar could react, I shot him with the stasis gun Daphne had lent me on our very first date, and which I’d kept ever since. With a stunned look, he promptly fell to the ground.

  Daphne swiftly confiscated the Professor’s ghost zapper and turned it off. “I’m keeping this. For science,” she said matter-of-factly, and neither Rebecca nor I cared to argue. We set about securing the Professor with rolls of duct tape while he glared furiously, unable to do anything else. And after that, we were at our leisure to dismantle the rest of the ghost traps, freeing the Professor’s numerous captives, who milled about as they adjusted to their new freedom. Being this close to spook central was unnerving, and I tried not to look any of them in the eyes. Just in case I saw something I didn’t like.

  “What happens to them now?” I asked Rebecca.

  “Most of them will find the
ir way home, following their emotional tethers or instincts,” she said. “A few might finally be able to move on. Nat or I will help any of them we can, and we know a guy who specializes in afterlife resolutions otherwise.”

  “And you? What happens to you?”

  Rebecca shrugged, a little ruefully. “I’m something of an unusual case. Nat and I are still trying to figure out why I’m still around. But don’t worry, I’m doing just fine.”

  “If you say so.” I looked down at the Professor, who was starting to struggle against his duct tape bonds as the stasis wore off. “So, what do we do about this joker, so he won’t go back to his old tricks?”

  “Go outside,” Rebecca told me and Daphne. “I think some of the Professor’s captives would like to have a word with him before they go.”

  I noticed, for the first time, how we’d been ringed by a horde of spirits, some of whom looked rather put-out and far more alert than earlier. As a fresh chill ran down my spine, I decided that our part in this was over. “Come on, Daphne.”

  “But—”

  “Come on, Daphne!” I grabbed her arm and urged her towards the exit. “I will happily agree that ghosts aren’t real if it’ll get us gone all the quicker.”

  “But I wanted to take some more readings.”

  I tugged Daphne closer, and whispered into her ear just what I’d do to, with, and for her if she forgot about studying the ghosts. She flushed, and practically dragged me away. “Good luck,” I called to Rebecca as we left.

  We never did make it to the Halloween party at Morningside that year.

  Professor Peyton Peculiar, owner of the Spectacularly Sinister Spookshow, closed down immediately and left town in a hurry. According to Daphne’s drones, he’s now running a carwash in Boise, Idaho, and can’t sleep without a nightlight.

  Rebecca and I get together every so often to chat about how weird our lives are. I think she likes knowing that someone outside of the Gaslight Distract remembers her.

  Daphne still won’t admit ghosts are real…but she’s not exactly saying they aren’t real, either…

  Next Halloween, I get to choose the costumes.

  And whenever I think about this particular adventure, one thing comes to mind: Professor Peculiar would have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for us meddling lesbians.

  J is for Jinkies!

  Jeanne Kramer-Smyth

  A late summer thunderstorm, just before sunset, had left the evening air clean and cool. Sonia splashed through the puddles. She enjoyed the water on her toes, preferring wet skin to wet socks. She pulled her hair elastic out, letting her gray hair fall free below her shoulders. The concrete path wound through aisles of graves. This familiar path and the moonlight let her deftly navigate the headstones until she stood in front of her client’s mother’s grave.

  A plain headstone, angular and simple. Just the woman’s name and the years of her birth and death. No “beloved mother” or “loving wife”. Grass tickled the arches of her feet as she stepped off the path. Feet in contact with the earth, hands on the top of the gray stone, Sonia waited.

  Whispers emerged from all directions. From somewhere to her left a strong tenor voice sang in a language Sonia didn’t understand. Italian maybe? She pushed away the notion of asking a ghost to teach her Italian. She was on the clock. Unfortunately, ghosts keep their own schedule. They have little sense of time and you can’t exactly make an appointment to interview them. They show up when they like, usually when it’s least convenient—the trick is being in the right place and being patient. And having whatever quirk of genetics it is that lets you hear and see them.

  Eyes closed, she listened—focused on the wet ground under her feet and the cool stone against her fingers. She pictured the photo that Annabelle had sent her. A stern, gray-haired lady in what Sonia thought of as a “Sunday best” dress.

  She waited. After the first thirty minutes her knees began to ache and she sat down, resigned to water-soaked skirts. The nearby ghosts stopped trying to talk to her when she didn’t respond. Two hours in she let go of her hopes that this would be an easy job. Four hours into the vigil, Sonia had run through every mental exercise she knew to keep herself awake and focused. The temptation to go home to a warm shower and a dry bed was very strong, but she focused on the job she was there to do; talk to Annabelle’s mother and get some questions answered.

  The moon set and the sky began to glow. Birds sang their annoyingly cheery song, but Annabelle’s mother never spoke to Sonia.

  She stretched and wiped her face with dew from the grass, waking herself up enough for the long walk back to her car. Ghosts could speak to her at any time of day or night - but making first contact with a new spirit was always easiest at night, either at the location of their death or the location of their body or bones.

  All along the path, voices called or muttered or sang but Sonia tried to tune them out and find her way back to the parking lot.

  “She is lost,” a female voice called from very close on her right. “She needs help.”

  “I am not lost. I do not need your help.” One foot in front of the other back to her car. Back to work that will keep a roof over her head and cat food in the bowls.

  “You hear me?” typical ghost joy and surprise, laced with anxiety “Stop. Listen, please.”

  “I’m listening.” Sonia sighed, stopped walking, and turned toward the voice. “Make it quick. I’ve had a long night.”

  “I need your help.”

  “Who do you want me to find?” Ghosts often had unfinished business. Even the ones that died at peace were curious about their loved ones and descendants.

  “They say a girl is lost. I can guide you to another who can help you find her.”

  “Who is lost?” Sonia felt a bit of adrenaline kick in. She tried to stay skeptical, ghosts make the worst eyewitnesses. No sense of time. “Lost right now?”

  “Yes. Now. Your time now.” Ghosts didn’t often have such a sense of urgency. “A girl.”

  “A girl? Where?” Sonia did a quick 360, peering across the grounds of the cemetery. Birds flew. Leaves shifted in the light breeze. No cars. No people. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “It is beyond where I can travel. I will take you to the edge. Follow my voice down the hill.”

  “My name is Sonia. What is yours?” She picked her way between the headstones, down the hill.

  “My friends called me Anna.”

  “Nice to meet you Anna.” She looked back over her shoulder to note where Anna’s grave stood before she crossed another concrete path.

  “Can you hear Phillip yet?”

  “Umm... sorry, but can you stop talking. I’ll try to hear him.”

  “Of course. Goodbye, Sonia. Good luck.” Then silence.

  Sonia stepped forward, fingers crossed that she walked in the right direction. Five steps later she heard a quiet male voice ahead.

  “Hello? Phillip? Anna sent me.”

  “I hear you!” he called back, louder. “Keep coming toward my voice.”

  “I hear you, too.” Sonia moved faster, not quite running, as she cut diagonally across the wide swath of green grass, dodging headstones left and right. “Keep talking.”

  “I don’t know how far you will have to go to find her.”

  “Do you know what happened? Why does this girl need my help?”

  “I think she is hurt. Or trapped.” His voice faded. “A wild cat is nearby.”

  “Who am I looking for next?”

  Phillip directed her to Jose. Sonia followed them one to the next, a string of names from gravestones turned to voices navigating her to the far side of the cemetery and toward the woods that lay beyond. Each voice had a slightly different story. A wild cat had cornered the girl. The girl was trapped and a wild cat might hurt her.

  She lost about fifteen minutes at the edge of the cemetery grounds finding the nearest gate. Between the gate and the most direct route back to where
she needed to be lay a broad expanse of sharp gravel in the eastern parking lot. Pulling at the side seams of her skirt, she ripped off two wide strips of fabric. She sat on the ground and wrapped each foot in fabric as best she could. Though she could still feel the rocks it was bearable and she strode across the lot.

  She smiled when her feet reached the scruffy weeds at the edge of the lot, and then realized she didn’t hear a voice ahead or behind her. The gravel felt sharper the second time as she took three huge steps back toward the fence.

  “Which way should I go now,” she called back to the last voice in the cemetery, “Oliver was it?”

  “Turn around. Turn around! Wrong way.”

  “I know, but I didn’t hear anyone.”

  “You have to find the boy beyond the fence. He should be nearby.”

  Sonia turned around to put her back to the fence and looked at the deserted parking lot, bracing herself. It was very unlikely that a boy was buried under this gravel. That meant she was looking for the ghost of someone who died here.

  Leaning down, she pushed gravel aside until she revealed a spot she could stand without the jagged rocks jabbing up through the fabric into the soles of her feet. The sun was up, peeping over the trees of the woods ahead and the low hills of mining country in the distance. It was going to be a hot day.

  “Anyone here?” Sonia reached out with that un-named part of her that could hear the voices of the dead. She had tried to explain it a few times to close friends, but it was like trying to describe smell to someone who had never had that sense. Her arms at her sides, she consciously unclenched her hands and breathed evenly, opening that inner part of her that could hear. “I’m listening.” she whispered.

  “Can you hear me?” Curious. Young.

  “Yes,” she shouted before modulating her voice to something less alarming, “yes, I can hear you. Do you know which way I have to go?”