by Sam Hooker
“What about me?” asked Myrtle, still on the outside of the barrier.
“Odd,” said Agather. “Let’s try that again.” She struck the bell with the wand a second time, and the entire world seemed to vibrate around Sloot. The chirping of the birds went all thick, as though they were chirping through soup. When things calmed down after a few seconds, he was still alone on the purple. Er, on the rug.
“Still nothing?” asked Agather.
“I’m afraid not,” said Myrtle, still as not-inside-the-Witchwood as ever.
“Hang on,” said Agather. She squinted and waggled a finger at Sloot. “There’s something different about ye.”
“Well, I’m dead.” That was a guess. Sloot hated guessing, but it was too purple to think straight in that moment.
“That’s it,” said Agather with a snap of her fingers, which then transitioned to waggling at Myrtle. “Ye ain’t dead!”
“But I am dead,” insisted Myrtle. “Killed by a necromancer.”
“Okay,” said Agather, “but you’ve got ... whatchacallems. Limbs and hair and such.”
“Not in the Hereafter,” said Myrtle. “I’m a ghost there.”
“Everybody’s a ghost there, even the living if they’re stupid enough to go and visit.”
“So I’m still alive?”
“Not if ye was killed, ye ain’t! Give me a minute, I’ve got to fetch me other rug.”
Moments later, Agather had a very red rug on the ground next to the purple one. It was crawling with black shapes, most of which made Sloot very glad he didn’t have dreams anymore. Several of them were snakes who looked like they were plotting to ask him for a loan.
“That doesn’t look like such a good idea,” said Sloot.
“Yeah,” said Myrtle. “I could just stay over here, if you don’t mind speaking up a bit.”
“Oh, it looks scary,” said Agather, “but only because it’s an infernal thing that drives mortals to madness if they look directly at it. Don’t worry, Mr. Peril, ye don’t count as mortal anymore.”
“But what about me? Am I still mortal? I’ve already looked at it!”
“Ye ain’t vomiting fire and trying to claw yer eyes from yer head, so I’m going to say no, yer not.”
“You’re not mortal, then?” Sloot asked Agather.
“Not exactly,” she replied, “but that’s beside the point. It’s my Witchwood, see?”
Agather produced a black recurved horn from within a leather satchel. It looked sinister. Agather’s broom, which was resting against the trunk of a nearby tree, bristled.
“Before you—” Myrtle began, overestimating the value that witches place on other people’s feelings regarding their plans. Agather blew a long, low note that caused all of the light in the Witchwood to dim while the air reverberated. When it finished, there was something standing on the carpet. It was Myrtle-shaped, but the lava-red eyes and razor-sharp teeth were decidedly someone else’s.
“I thought as much,” said Agather. “Yer a demon.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Myrtle in three voices at once, the lowest of which would have been a welcome addition to any church choir, certain complications aside. “Oh dear, why do I sound like that?”
“A witch need not repeat herself,” said Agather. “Perks of the job. I’d show ye a mirror, but the only one I’ve got would trap ye for eternity.”
“What is she going on about?” Myrtle wheeled on Sloot quickly enough to startle him, though in her present state, a lazy, sauntering circle would have managed that.
Sloot said nothing. What could he say? The woman he loved had gone from undead possession, skipped right past death itself, and moved onto demonry. Demonism? One of those should be correct. Sloot focused on the grammar, which helped keep him from screaming aloud. Demonicity?
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Myrtle’s volcanic eyes went wider as she looked at her hands, whose fingers were now twice as long as they’d been previously and ended in pointies. “How did this happen?”
“Happen? Demons is demons,” said Agather. “Ye mean yer whole life, ye didn’t know ye was one?”
“I wasn’t!” Myrtle thundered, her scaly wings flapping with agitation. “I was possessed by a ghost for most of my life, he’d have known about it. Right?”
“What sort of a ghost?” asked Agather.
“A philosopher.”
“Then yer right. Philosophers never hold back when they have a tidbit of information worth spewing to the wind.”
Myrtle started weeping in little wracked sobs. Sloot’s first thought was to go and comfort her, though it was swiftly followed up by a severe panic that warned against it. Her tears were probably sulfuric acid or something. Plus, there was the matter of his soul. Didn’t demons eat those? He was sure he’d read that.
Oh, show a little backbone, Sloot’s thoughts said to his panic in a surprising turn of events. And why shouldn’t he? This was still Myrtle, after all. She may be the visual embodiment of all his teenage fears surrounding encounters with the opposite sex—which had followed him well into his thirties—but there had been something real between them, hadn’t there? She’d been his girlfriend! Hadn’t she been a demon the whole time? What had really changed?
“I was right,” said Myrtle. She sniffled.
“About what?” asked Sloot.
“I knew I wasn’t going to like it.”
“Oh.”
“So that’s it, then?”
“Not quite,” said Agather. “I’ll have to hex ye before I can let ye out, I’m afeared.”
“Hang on a minute,” growled Myrtle, who was more than a bit menacing with all of her demonic accoutrements bristling.
“Ye seem nice enough,” said Agather, “but yer a demon all the same. It’s standard witchery, hexing demons so they can’t go all ‘bathe in the blood of the innocent’ in me territory.”
“I’m not going to—”
“That’s right, yer not.” Agather wiggled her wand about in the air, then flicked it in Myrtle’s direction. Myrtle went limp and collapsed.
“Oh dear,” said Sloot, who didn't normally approve of that sort of outburst, but felt it warranted given the circumstances.
Myrtle gave a little groan, and then stood up. It would be rather more accurate to say that Myrtle tried to stand up, given that she failed spectacularly.
“What’s going on?” Myrtle roared. “What’ve you done to the world? It’s all spinny!”
“That’ll be the hex,” said Agather. “Yer allowed to come visit, but yer inner ear will wait for ye outside.”
“You’ll pay for this, witch!”
“There it is,” said Agather. “Nice as ye may be, yer still a demon.”
“Oh,” said Myrtle. “I really didn’t mean to say that.”
“I know, dearie. Ye’ll forgive a witch her precautions.”
“I suppose so.”
“Now, if there’ll be nothing else?”
“Nicoleta,” said Sloot.
“Who?”
“Nicoleta Goremonger. She was Vlad’s court wizard before she died.”
“Oh, that Nicoleta! Met her before, very nice, if not a bit hard on the eyes.”
“That would be her,” said Sloot. Nicoleta’s colorful attire had given him headaches more than once. “She can’t do any magic now that she’s dead.”
“Well, of course she can’t.”
“Oh.”
Agather had said it with such authority that it didn't occur to Sloot to question the matter any further. At least he could tell Nicoleta he'd tried.
“The magic of the living don’t work in the Hereafter,” said Agather. “Witchery does to a point, but it’s not the fancy book magic that wizards get up to. It’s much older.”
“I see,” said Sloot.
“She’ll need to learn something else, like necromancy.”
“I thought you said necromancy was foul!”
“Oh, it is,” said Agather, “for the living, anyway
. Controlling the forces that lie beyond the veil is an abomination! Unless, of course, yer already dead. In that case, yer playing in yer own sandbox, see?”
“Oddly enough, I do,” said Sloot. He didn’t tend to understand magic talk or want to do so. He was a mathematician, and mathematics were about as far removed from magic as thoughts of live centipedes in your mouth were from a good night’s sleep.
“We only know the one necromancer,” said Myrtle, who’d stopped trying to get up and curled into a ball on the rug. “We’re not calling him.”
“It’s not Bartleby, is it?” asked Agather.
“Gregor,” said Sloot, “though he’s gone by other names.”
Agather waddled over to a tree that had a great hollow in it. She gave the tree a solid kick. It grumbled at her.
“Go ask Bartleby if he’s ever gone by ‘Gregor,’” she shouted into its big knothole. “There’s a nice pile of gizzards in it for ye.”
The tree shook disconcertingly and was still.
“That could take a while,” said Agather. “I’ll send him yer way if he’s not yer Gregor.”
“I’m not sure how to tell you where we live,” said Sloot. “Well, not live. Reside.”
“I know yer names,” said Agather. “That’s all a witch needs to find the dead.”
Pub Rules
The return trip to the Hereafter didn’t take long enough to be awkward. One of the benefits of being a ghost was being able to put yourself back in your grave without a whole lot of fuss. That's how Sloot would have seen it if he were an optimist, but alas.
“I’ve never seen grey sparkles before,” said Nicoleta. Fortunately for Sloot, she’d been in the parlor when Sloot and Myrtle had returned to the house. She was lying on the sofa, watching tiny grey explosions of light dance among black clouds that rolled across the ceiling.
“Willie’s still not in the circle, I assume.” Myrtle spoke eagerly to Nicoleta, apparently keen on avoiding eye contact with Sloot. To be fair, anyone would have done. His gaze had a haggard sort of fear to it, the sort that cowards wear to dinner when the entree might be seafood with the heads still on.
“No,” Nicoleta replied, then pointed up at the ceiling, “but it’s pretty. I just wish they were purple. Not that I remember purple. I remember liking purple, and something tells me it would go well with the sparkles.”
Sloot felt as though he might be ill, thinking of the violently purple rug to which Agather had subjected him. “I've had my fill of purple.”
“That's because you're boring.” There wasn't a hint of malice in Nicoleta’s delivery. It was cheerily casual, the way she might have told him the time, the absence of the concept of time in the Hereafter notwithstanding.
There was a knock at the door.
“Am I supposed to get that?” asked Sloot. “I’m still unclear.”
Nicoleta sat up, an eager smile crossing her face. “Don’t. Let’s just see what happens.”
No one moved. The knock came again.
“I think I should get it,” said Sloot.
“What sort of compulsion is it?” asked Nicoleta.
“Pardon?”
“Is it the resistible sort?”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever felt a resistible compulsion.”
Nicoleta sent a puzzled look to Myrtle, who countered with a shrug. They waited in silence until most normal people would assume whoever had knocked had given up. Then their assumptions about human behavior were challenged by a third knock.
“I should really go answer the door,” said Sloot, his voice starting to waver with nerves.
“The best case scenario,” said Nicoleta, “is that you’re welcoming the walking dead into our house.”
“The walking dead are the only people in the house,” Sloot replied. “And Nipsy, of course. And Myrtle.”
“And Myrtle?”
“She’s a demon.”
“Oh, thanks for that!” Myrtle spat.
“I’m sorry?”
“You should be! Giving away a lady’s secrets like that. I’m just wrapping my head around it myself, and here you’re telling everyone as though it were yours to tell!”
“Sorry,” said Sloot, “I only thought—”
“No, you didn’t.”
“You’re a demon?” Nicoleta looked more fascinated than alarmed, though that was usually the case.
“According to Agather,” said Myrtle.
“From the Witchwood? How is she?”
There was a fourth knock at the door, not that Sloot was keeping count. Not that Sloot was fooling anyone. Of course, he was keeping count.
Sloot whimpered.
“Oh, go and answer it then,” said Nicoleta. “We gals need to talk! Far more interesting than teasing you, although that was fun. Now, shoo!”
Sloot practically sprinted for the door. His running form was no less embarrassing now, even though he only had the psychic impressions of spindly limbs to hurl spasmodically forward. Watching Sloot run reminded one of juvenile octopuses having a slap fight.
“It’s about time,” said Grumley. “Not your fault, I presume. Snared up in more of Lord Hapsgalt’s manifestations, I’m sure.”
Sloot simply nodded. When facing the equally terrifying options of not correcting a false presumption or admitting to dereliction of duty, it seemed the sensible thing to do.
Nipsy padded into the room and gave a yip. It looked at Grumley in a way that was nothing short of adorable, but then Nipsy was a very small puppy. That was the only sort of look at its disposal.
“And now there’s a puppy?” Grumley’s eyebrows were raised in question, as though they were trying to get as far from his nose as possible. It was an awful nose, gnarled and bulbous. One for which his parents should have apologized.
“Willie’s named it Nipsy,” said Sloot.
“Not after the late Minister of Interrogation, I hope.”
“After a friend from his hunting club.”
“That’s good,” said Grumley. “The late Minister wouldn’t have approved. He was furious with the Ministry of Propaganda’s rebranding, you know. What was it they call it now?”
“Uncle.”
“Uncle. Ha! No, no, Nipsy hated that. Where’s the puppy gotten off to, then?”
Sloot turned. Nipsy had vanished. He had the common sense to be afraid of the thing, born of dark magic as it was, and it terrified Sloot to know that it could be watching him from the shadows, waiting for its opportunity to strike.
“I couldn’t say for sure,” said Sloot with a shiver. “It’s probably around here somewhere, unfortunately.”
“Couldn’t say for sure? Egads, man! I was sure you’d have all of this well in hand!”
Sloot fidgeted. He was unaccustomed to being dressed down for doing his job improperly, and a lifetime in the Old Country had left him permanently paranoid with regard to swearing. He wasn’t sure where “egads” lay on the profanity spectrum. Probably closer to “oh, dear me” than the one that sounds like the feeling of a hangover on a hot, humid day.
“I don’t have to impress upon you how important it is to rein in the Soul, do I?”
“It would be … bad,” Sloot hazarded. “Disastrous, in fact, if he were to …”
“Not to be dramatic, but basically all of the worst parts of chapter 314 of the Book of Black Law. You know the one.”
“Supposing the specifics had slipped my mind?”
“You should find a way to refresh your memory. You’ve still got contacts in the Order on the other side, I’m sure.”
“Okay,” said Sloot, who didn’t. He’d never actually joined the Serpents of the Earth, a fact which Grumley had clearly forgotten.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Grumley. “Let me know when you’ve gotten rid of the puppy, will you?”
“Gotten rid of? Er, yes, of course.” Atop everything else piled on Sloot, he was now expected to kill a puppy!
It wasn’t a real puppy, of course, rather a puppy-shap
ed manifestation of dark forces, resulting from too much blood energy having been fed to the Soul of the Serpent. Still, it was a puppy. Even with the extenuating circumstances, killing a puppy was hard to contemplate. Just the thought of it was making the room go dark, though that might have been something else, because a belfry’s worth of spectral bats also fluttered in through the front door and disappeared into the clouds on the ceiling.
“Good evening,” said the gaunt, creepy figure that had mysteriously appeared in the doorway. “I have arrived. Vhich one of you is Sloot?”
“Ugh,” said Grumley. “Don’t invite him in. Vampires are ridiculous, you’ll never get him to leave.”
“I’m not a vampire,” said the mysterious visitor. “Thanks, though. Vampires are cool.”
Grumley rolled his eyes and drew up his hood. “I’ve got to go, Peril. Do get a handle on things around here, will you?”
“Er, yes, fine.”
Grumley left, smirking at the mysterious visitor like one would do at a forty-year-old son who was still living at home.
“So you are Sloot?”
“What? No. Well, yes, but … can I help you?”
“I am Bartleby,” said … Bartleby. He moved his head back and to the left, throwing a one-eyebrow-raised look at Sloot. A bolt of lightning crackled across the sky behind him.
“Cool, right?”
“Er, yes,” said Sloot. “A bit scary, if that’s what you were going for.”
“I vas!” Bartleby could scarcely contain his delight. “Agather asked me to look in on your friend, may I come in?”
“Sure, why don’t—”
“No, vait!” Bartleby drew back into a mysterious and menacing pose. “Vhat I meant to say vas you vill invite me in!” He wiggled his fingers in a complicated sort of way, leading Sloot to wonder whether he’d had an extra knuckle or two installed.
“What’s that?”
“It is a beguiling charm,” said Bartleby. “Are you not compelled to let me in?”
“I mean, I was going to.”
“Oh. But you’re not … you know … bent to my vill?”
“Your will?”
“Never mind. Maybe since you vere already going to.”