by David Green
Can’t say I blamed her, but I’ll be damned—literally—if I’m going to be anyone’s sacrifice. See, her sigils could hold me, but they couldn’t hold a bullet. Two Wheelers turned out to be exactly the kind of offering that’d attract the Devil and so I wound up with the most powerful being in Hell on the hook.
I surprised him when I didn’t beg for my own life. I asked him to reunite two souls in Heaven. Guess maybe I made an impression. I could have asked for anything, so I figure he saved me for services rendered, but those scales feel unbalanced. Pretty sure I’ll be seeing him around.
Diana’s watching me—at least, I think she is—and I realize I’ve been sitting in silence a little too long. It’s been a fucking long couple of days.
I fill a glass with bourbon, and almost ask if she wants one. I’m not sure if it’s her age, or the fact she’s a goddamn ghost that stops me in my tracks. “You died in this room.”
She nods, recognizing the statement in my tone. I don’t need to ask. Ghosts who haven’t Strengthened live out spiritual loops of their lives, usually their last moments. Why else would she be here, of all places?
“He brought me here when he…”
Her head sinks. I regret bringing it up, but…
I’m taking her case. I already know it.
I down the bourbon, then climb to my feet. She’s just a kid—murdered in my office—and I don’t want to question her here. I ain’t visited the alley I died in yet, and I’m not sure I want to. Dream about it often enough.
“Want some fresh air? Sorry, figure of speech. Let’s go outside. Change of scenery might do you some good.”
I grab my spare trench coat—not my favorite, but I set that one alight yesterday trying to scare off two fucking Amaroks—and walk to the door. Her reflection wavers in the glass, hesitating.
She follows me with slow, tentative steps when I swing the door open. I guess it’s been a while since she stepped outside.
…
“You know, Kurt Cobain loved The Beatles.”
“Who’s Kurt Cobain?” Diana asks, walking by my side.
I sigh. So, my small talk’s weak right now. I’m a little shook. After the events at the Wheeler place last night, I should’ve gone home, taken it easy and let what happened sink in. Hell, I should have gone to bed for a night or two at least.
Maeve and Harry moved on yesterday—to Heaven, but I lost `em just the same. It comforts me they’re together, and I owe Lucifer for that. Michelle Wheeler would have stranded Maeve in Hell if she’d had her way.
Not that I knew it was her. She pinned it on Dean, used my rage and vengeance to feed her ritual. Man, did my soul sing when I Expunged that sonofabitch, but I sealed my fate in the process. Even if the Devil took pity and saved me from the Reaper’s swing, revenge is a sin. Reckon no matter what I do, Heaven’s closed to me now.
Not like I’m giving up. Too stubborn or plain stupid. My old ma always said I fought for everything, bless her soul, and yeah, that phrase contains a healthy dollop of sarcasm. Since my awakening, I’ve avoided visiting my family home. I don’t want to know what I’ll find now that I can see the dead and the demons.
Haven’t been there in years, even before my death. I moved to Haven from Portland a lifetime ago and never looked back, even if my thoughts sometimes stray that way.
I put my restlessness down to Lucifer’s healing. I made my way back to my office after our encounter, but I can’t recall the details. Think I just sat in my chair for a spell, then got back to work. Still, I bled out on the floor of Michelle Wheeler’s basement, just like I did in that alleyway. The Devil might have healed me, made me feel fitter than I have in years, but the crash is going to be like all my hangovers rolled into one.
Damn, I haven’t slept in over forty-eight hours.
Maybe that’s why I can’t nail my thoughts down. My mind’s ragged from a night of raw revelation, but right now all I want is something to focus on. A new case. Someone to help.
Diana glides by my side, head tracking like a security camera, taking in every part of this strange, new world she’s seeing for the first time. I wonder what it all looks like when you have no eyes.
“Where are we going?” she asks, voice shrill, like she’s standing on the edge of panic.
Shit.
I ain’t thinking straight. This kid hasn’t seen a lick of Haven, save for my office wall, in sixty years. Place has changed—so have the people—and I don’t just mean the dead. Folk of all colors and shapes, dressed in clothes I reckon boggle her poor mind, are streaming by, way more than she’d have seen back in the 60s. Vehicles fill the road too, blaring horns, spitting fumes, pounding bass.
This is like my awakening squared. It’s not just ghosts for her. It’s everything. She’s been transported sixty years into the future.
“To my apartment. It ain’t far. Sorry, guess I’m not thinking straight today. Can you blame me?”
I offer her my lopsided smile. The boyish, charming one. She peers up at me, jaw like stone. Now that I think about it, this grin don’t work out all too well for me.
“Is it close?”
I throw a glance around. My feet walked me here on autopilot while I did some first class navel-gazing.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s not even a minute’s walk from here. Come on.”
Picking up the pace, Diana follows, so close I can feel the chill in the seam where we’re occupying the same space. She’s got her head down, avoiding the sensory assault, so I scan the street for the two of us. That’s when I see it.
An unmarked cop car sits across from my apartment. How do I know it’s the cops? Because these pains in the ass tail me and shake me down whenever they get the chance. Or they’re bored. Maybe it’s for kicks? I never did ask.
Lori Gavin and Henry Butler. Yeah, I have history with these two morons. Our professional disagreements go all the way back to when I worked regular P.I. jobs. I understood their beef better back then. Not all cops like freelancers, especially not ones who took cases for shady people on the side.
Look, money talks, alright? I learned my goddamn lesson when three bullets pinned me to the ground in a filthy alleyway.
Except that now, they like me even less. They damn-near accuse me of planting evidence and taking advantage of the sickos—their words—with my paranormal shtick.
My paranormal shtick landed me face-to-face with the Devil last night and now a ghost just followed me back from my office. I’m not in the mood for their shit right now.
Fuck, what if they know about last night? They couldn’t, right? Cops would have come by the office with a warrant.
It’s a shakedown, that’s all. A good, ol’ Haven PD violation of civil rights.
Still…
“Change of plans, kid. Know somewhere better we can go. It’ll help you settle in more.” I lower my voice. “I hope…”
Turning on my heel, I stoop, half-jogging in some weird, goblin-like lurch, and head back the way we came, Diana still stuck to my side. No questions… Gotta say, not my style, but I appreciate it.
We pass my office and I take a peek. I always do when I ramble by. I double-take.
“Did you see something up there?”
“Where?” Diana squeaks, head down.
“My office. Thought I saw…”
I don’t say ‘a shadow’. It’s the lack of sleep, the last couple of days catching up to me, the goddamn cops outside my apartment. Even one of those would be enough to put a guy on edge.
“What?”
I skid to a stop and peer into the darkness across the sidewalk. Sun’s setting real quick in Haven these days.
“Nothing.”
I’m lying. It ain’t the window now. A glance confirms I saw nothing. But there are eyes watching me. Not the crushing weight of Lucifer’s gaze like at the Wheelers’ place, but s
imilar. My mouth goes dry and my bones start to ache. That presence is like a shadow at the corner of my eye, like an itch in my spine.
Maybe it’s my imagination. Again. The bastard.
“Thought I saw something…”
“I don’t see a thing,” the girl answers.
Her eyeless stare dawns on me. Show’s how fucking frazzled I am. Hey, ghost-girl with no eyes, did you see something? Get a grip, Nick. “That a joke? Just I’m not sure if I should laugh or not.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but I feel like Diana just rolled her eyes.
“I can see, you idiot. Not how I did before I died, but it’ll do. Just all this out here… It’s a lot to take in.”
“Right,” I say, glancing around.
That pressure from somewhere ebbs away, and my breath comes that little bit easier again. Maybe I’m on the verge of a panic attack?
Saturday evening travellers jam the rain-slick, neon-lit sidewalk. It’s not just the living, finishing work and heading out for the night; the dead walk beside them. Hell thrives, and the city’s buzz threatens to explode.
Some ghosts do journey here and there, aware and living a different kind of existence. Some nod at me as they pass by, recognizing me as aware. Others just stand around, lost in the cycle of their afterlife. Walking once more, I cross the kneeling, bearded man. He still weeps as he holds out his hands, like he’s done for the past five years and God knows how much longer.
“He blames himself for the death of his son.”
I freeze and look back. Diana’s stopped in front of the other ghost, staring at him.
“They argued on the sidewalk, and his boy turned and ran. As he did, he slipped, and cracked his head on the ground. An accident, but he blames himself, and all that’s left inside is grief. He took his own life and returned here in death.”
“You knew him?” I ask, pulling a cigarette from my pocket and sheltering it while I light it. I’m hoping it’ll settle my nerves.
“No,” Diana says, turning away, “but I feel his pain. And those will kill you, you know? Daddy always hated smoking.”
A ghost runs ahead of us, a gun in hand. He pauses, lifts the weapon to his head and blows his brains out in an act of silent suicide. He drops to the sidewalk, flickers, then disappears.
Fella’s caught in a loop. He kills himself every twenty minutes.
His performance doesn’t faze me now, and all the oblivious, living faces passing it by almost bring a smile to my face. Life is a farce sometimes.
The first time I saw it, I drew my weapon in self-defense. Man, I’m lucky no one saw that.
I ponder Diana’s words for another couple of seconds. A ghost feeling the ‘pain’ of another isn’t something I’ve come across. My first thought is to take her to Harry and Maeve’s, but after last night, that’s not an option for obvious reasons. I swallow the pang of sadness, hiding it deep in my stomach. I’ll deal with that another time.
Still, there’s another place we can talk in safety, and that’s my Plan B: The Styx. That’s if Ruby ain’t still pissed at me. It’s not like I killed the demon in her bar last night.
“Come on,” I say, checking both ways before crossing the street. Like Lucifer said at the Wheelers’ place, I’ve only got one life left. I’d rather not waste it on something dumb like getting hit by a car. “We’re not far.”
I could have driven, I guess. I run a classic, bottle-green 1994 Ford Mustang convertible. She’s a beauty, no doubt, but I know a shortcut to The Styx through Meadow Park. A lungful of fresh air will do me some good, if not my new client.
Plus, if the cops are looking for me, they’ll know my ride. It stands out.
The park isn’t a place I’d recommend many to walk through after dark, despite the pretty name, but I can look after myself. For the most part.
A thin mist smothers the grass. It ain’t that cold, and it’s raining. Night turned dark fast too. Quicker than it should, I’m pretty sure. Weird things happen in Hell every Godforsaken day, but the fucking hairs on the back of my neck are on end and my gums are starting to throb. I pull the collar up on my trench coat, trying to keep warm as my muscles bunch up.
Call me Detective Fucking Obvious, but something ain’t right.
“You gonna ask me questions, Nick?” Diana whispers.
I glance at her again and curse as I look into the holes where her eyes used to be. They freak me out. I’m not squeamish, but her killer must’ve done that to her before she died, and that’s what bothers me. Some humans are thralls or influenced by malevolent demons—something I discovered in great detail during the Whiskey Pete’s case almost four years ago—but just as many have evil festering in their souls. To do something like that to her, they had to have been cracked one way or the other.
Still, I need to get a lid on my reactions, for her sake.
I’ll reserve judgment on Diana’s killer until I learn more. If I learn more. I’m expecting her murderer’s already dead. Then what?
“When we get to where we’re going,” I say, pointing across the foggy park. “I like to ask my questions while sitting down. Usually in my office, but needs must.”
“Hmm, you’re lying. I can tell. Talking of your office and telling lies, I couldn’t help overhearing before, your talk with Rosa? You’re really terrible with women.”
I laugh, and it feels good. The sound rings out like it’s trying to dispel the gloom. Now my teeth ache right along with my gums.
“You know, dating’s changed a lot since 1960. Were you even old enough to date anyway?”
“I died in 1968. And, yeah, I’m old enough. I’m fifteen. Didn’t have a lot of time for it though. Had to help my momma raise four babies, worked split shifts at the diner and the Laundromat. Only way to keep a roof over our heads.”
My laughter dies. Black kids have it tough nowadays. Can’t imagine Haven during the 60s. I think about Diana’s family after she died. She didn’t mention her dad then. Had he passed before she did? Did they ever discover what happened to her?
The answer, though it happened decades ago, pisses me off.
No. They didn’t.
The local PD wouldn’t have wasted resources looking into a missing girl from a poor, black family.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a proud man. I’ll take all the help I can get.” I’m hoping falling on my sword might help to change the subject. “What am I doing wrong? With Rosa, I mean?”
“What are you waiting for? You’re always putting things off with her. Now you’ve arranged another date for six days away. Something’s going to come up. Isn’t that what you always say? ‘Something’s come up.’ See her tomorrow. You’re lucky she’s hanging around for you at all.”
That’s what I get for letting my guard down, I guess. A fifteen-year-old girl who died fifty-six years ago just let me have it with both barrels.
“Well,” I say, floundering. “It’s not that easy. The last few years hit me pretty hard, you know? Intense ain’t the word, kid, and yesterday’s shit show needs a few days to settle. Now there’s this.”
“See? ‘Something’s come up, Rosa.’ I ain’t going anywhere, Nick. Don’t use me as an excuse.”
I scowl in response and shove my hands deep into my pockets. I reckon my bottom lip’s sticking out too. We walk in silence, wet grass squelching beneath my feet. I can feel the cold mist seeping through my pant legs, city lights fading as we weave deeper into the park. Diana doesn’t make a sound.
Nothing makes a sound.
The mist’s getting thicker. It’s not natural. My stomach sinks. I pat the Ruger-57 under my arm. It can harm humans and some lesser demons, but there’s more than that out there.
I don’t even have a sliver of iron.
“Diana,” I hiss, pausing and drawing my gun. “Stick close to me.”
I’d like t
o say she’ll be safe, since she’s a ghost, but there’s entities that’ll make a ghost deader than their first time in Hell.
My breathing’s loud in my ears as I peer through the fog. The temperature plummets, and I wish I’d never stepped foot in goddamn Meadow Park. My fingers grip the Ruger’s alloy steel and I bare my teeth in a silent snarl.
The stench of rot grows thick in my nostrils and in the distance I hear a ragged breath, like a body dragged through gravel.
“You haven’t escaped the call, Nick Holleran.” It’s a voice I recognize, one that sounds like fingernails clawing at sandpaper. “I am here to collect.”
I curse. Louder than I should with a kid present.
I turn, spreading my hands out wide, the Ruger hanging loose. It’d have no effect on Charon anyway.
“Ferryman, long time no see.”
I give him my best grin. It doesn’t affect him. Nothing does. He sees Hell in black and white. You’re alive or dead, and if you ain’t breathing, you’re Charon’s business.
Yeah, we’ve crossed paths before. But never like this.
“You should have died, Nick Holleran. Again. That you live vexes me. Let us see to that.”
YOU CAN’T DO THAT
“Last time I checked—and believe me, Charon, I’ve done that more than once since last night—I’m breathing. You’ve no business with me, pal.”
The ferryman just stands there, mist swirling around his ankles. Picture Clint Eastwood in any of his old westerns, then peel the skin away until just a memory of it covers the sharp angles, joints and bony planes of his skeleton. Dress him in black—boots, trousers, shirt. Add a Stetson and a cloak so dark, it blurs into the shadows behind him, becoming void.
Staring into that absence of light too long reminds you of every soul that ever lived and died. This sonofabitch has welcomed each and every one that stuck around in Hell with his emotionless, toothy grin.
That’s Charon.
Dude’s a psychopomp, a cool name from the legends of the living. Scratch that, he’s the psychopomp. The Greeks said he ferried the dead across the Styx. Other cultures, different names, but he carried out the same purpose in all the myths. And, in every one of them, it’s Charon. There’s only one, like a Highlander of Death.