u/JeremytheTulpa

Chapter 17

 

 

Surveying the spectral crowd, their four prisoners, the collapsed remains of Martha Drexel, a canine’s corpse, and she who floated above them all, imperial, Benjy Rothstein thought, Shit. Neither the living nor the dead were aware of his scrutiny. Instinctively, he’d made himself invisible, and entirely intangible, the very moment that the house’s lights went out. Silently, he’d watched the dead special agents make their entrance, followed by the villain who’d twisted the Oceanside of his childhood nightmarish. 

If that gruesome bitch becomes aware of me, she’ll make me her slave, too, he assumed. Come to think of it, my afterlife is tied to Emmett’s life. If he dies, will I ascend to the Phantom Cabinet…or will I become the entity’s property as part of some package deal? Best not to find out. But what should I do? 

His gaze settled on Martha’s body. Shallowly respiring, it looked so fragile, so vulnerable. A quick mercy killing would sever the porcelain-masked entity’s tether to Earth. 

Can I do it? Benjy wondered. Can I actually murder this lady, even in these circumstances? Will I hate myself if I do? What about if I don’t?  

The porcelain-masked entity was cackling. “Just a bit of blood, for starters,” she said. “No need to rush the process. We can stretch this out for quite a while.”

Damn it, thought Benjy. If I don’t do something now, then Carter and the Wilsons will get the Lemuel Forbush treatment. Blood and guts strewn to all corners. A terrible scene. 

Emmett was my best friend. Actually, he still is. Graham’s just nine years old. And Celine, well, just look at her. She’s the sort of babe I always dreamed about while alive. Looks damn great naked, too. As for Carter…he always seemed alright. Plus, I owe it to Douglas to try to save the guy’s life.

How will I do it? Can I grab some kind of weapon and carry it over to Martha, unnoticed? Unlikely. Think, Benjy, think.

Generating spontaneous symbology, the ghosts began to claw shallow, crimson-dribbling grooves into their captive’s faces. Graham shrieked and wept. Celine attempted to assure him that everything would be okay. “We’ll get through this…somehow,” she promised, hoping not to perish with a lie on her lips. 

Emmett was so furious, and simultaneously so ashamed by his own impotence, that he could only grind his teeth, mutely enduring his agony. Carter called Martha’s name over and over, as if that might awaken her and set the world right. 

Okay, Benjy thought. It’s now or never, isn’t it? Am I strong enough to strangulate Martha? It’s not like she can fight back. Maybe I can stick my fist in her throat and solidify it enough to asphyxiate her. 

He floated, insubstantial, to where the ravaged woman lay. Here goes nothing, he thought, feeling as if he should sob for his own soon-to-be-shed innocence. Martha’s mouth, yet uncannily agape, might as well have been voicing a plea: “End my suffering.” Benjy pressed his fingers together, thinning his hand as much as he could. Thrusting it forward, past palate, teeth and tongue, down the woman’s gullet, he felt nothing physically, yet recoiled at the process. She’s not going to vomit, is she? he wondered.

Sorry, ma’am, he thought, preparing to manifest. Before he could do so, however, the unexpected occurred. 

An implacable suction seized Benjy by the essence. Into and through Martha he was drawn, unable to shriek in protest or slow himself one iota. 

All around him, impressionistic, pink became crimson, became burnt umber, became black. Subjective eternities passed, with Benjy mired in utter darkness. Are Emmett and the rest of ’em still alive? he wondered. Am I trapped here forever? 

In Martha’s inner realm—simultaneously within and beyond her biology—there existed no guideposts to assist him, no friendly face to spew comfort. This must be where the porcelain-masked entity keeps her specters when they’re not haunting the living, Benjy realized. Did she build this place herself, hollowing Martha out, or can every living human carry more than one soul inside them?  

Is Martha even still here? he next wondered. Or did that demonic bitch exile her from her own body? How can I find her spirit, if it remains?

As she’d been committed to the asylum when he’d been but an infant, Benjy had never met Martha Drexel. If she was hiding deep within herself, it was unlikely that he, a stranger, would be viewed favorably enough to draw her from concealment. Still, he had to try something. 

Okay, the first order of business is to make myself visible, he thought. Shaping the idea of a skull around his thoughts, he dressed it in translucent musculature and fat, and layered skin atop that. Imagining a hand in front of his recreated eyes, he soon flexed pudgy fingers. Glancing down, he saw his entire see-through body returned to him.

When he tore his gaze away from his returned self, Benjy realized something astonishing. The darkness had abated. By fabricating himself a body from the void, he’d attained the ability to perceive another scene entirely. 

As a matter of fact, the site’s furnishings and miscellanea identified it as a little girl’s bedroom. Garish flowers—eye-assaulting shades of yellow, orange and red—practically burst from the wallpaper. Elaborating on that theme, the room’s green shag carpeting evoked a well-tended lawn. Upon it, saucer-eyed dolls sat in diminutive chairs around a tiny tea table at the foot of a canopy bed. In that bed, beneath pristine pink covers, there existed a small, shuddering form. 

“Uh, hello,” Benjy said, addressing it. “Can you hear me in there? My name’s Benjy. Where am I?”

His words went ignored. Feeling self-consciously awkward, Benjy glanced to the closed door, wondering if he should make an exit so as to explore the rest of the house. Before he could so much as make an attempt to do so, the door swung inward. 

In blundered a mid-thirties fellow clad in rumpled business attire. Beneath the man’s greying, receding hairline, his eyes had acquired a pink sheen. His tie was nearly unknotted. Toes protruded from his sock holes. His voice was half-snarl and half-wheedling as he asked, “You awake, honey?”

No answer arrived from the beneath-the-covers bulge, which had fallen perfectly still. 

“No goodnight kiss for Daddy? It’s been a long, awful day. I deserve one.”

The faintest of whimpers sounded.

Off came the man’s tie, followed by his jacket. “Don’t be like that, Martha,” he said. “Your mama’s already in dreamland and I could sure use some company.”

The figure beneath the covers contracted, as if it was attempting to squeeze itself inside itself, so as to disappear entirely. 

An unbuttoned shirt struck the carpet, unveiling a flabby, hirsute chest and stomach, both strangers to sunlight. 

“Just a little cuddle, darlin’. That’s all I’m asking for.”

The man unzipped his pants, freeing his tumescence.

“Hey, stop that,” Benjy protested, now alarmed, but no one seemed to hear him. 

Off came tighty-whities. Only shabby socks remained on the man as he climbed into the bed. 

“Ah, there you are,” he declared, slipping beneath the covers. “I was afraid you’d gone missing. Now give Daddy a kiss.”

In response came a protest, too faint to discern. 

“Listen to what I say, Martha. You don’t want a spanking, do you?”

I’m in Martha’s memory, Benjy realized. This actually happened to her, back when she was just a little girl. No wonder the porcelain-masked entity was able to sink her hooks into her so easily. That horrible cunt feeds on fear and pain, and Martha’s got ’em in spades. 

Beneath the covers, a struggle: unwanted caresses. Then the large form maneuvered itself atop the small form and the bed began rocking. Grunting and quiet sobbing sounded to nauseate Benjy. How can I stop what already happened? he wondered.  

It was over in minutes. “Put your pajamas back on,” Mr. Drexel demanded. “Not one word to your mother.”

Without another uttered syllable, he climbed out of the bed and redonned his business clothes. Only after he’d exited the room and closed the door behind him did a young Martha peek her mousy little head out to confirm that her boogeyman was truly gone. 

Tears streamed from her eyes as she tore hair from her head. Her pineapple print nightclothes seemed a hideous joke. Not knowing what else to do, Benjy sat down beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder.  

A feminine voice then arrived, startling him with its adultness. “I was just eight years old,” Martha said. “Then nine years old, then ten. It went on for years, until I started dating Carter in middle school. The way that she looked at me sometimes, my mom must’ve known all about it and hated me for it. My own father…every time he got wasted enough to give in to his sick impulses…made me his little whore. I relive every rape now, again and again. This must be hell. Does that make you Satan? A demon, maybe?”

“The devil?” said Benjy. “Not me, ma’am. Never. As a matter of fact, I don’t think Satan ever existed. People just made him up to excuse their own evil actions. Wait a second…you can perceive me?”

The child with a grown-up voice—two Martha selves merged—turned and met his gaze. “Sure, I can see you. You’re a bit transparent, though. No offense.”

The bedroom door flew open. The ogreish Mr. Drexel returned, now dressed in weekend wear: green slacks and a yellow polo shirt. “Wake up, girl!” he bellowed. “I’ve got a present for ya!” Bone-chillingly, he chortled.

Returned to that moment in time, Martha was back under the covers, trembling convulsively. 

“Now wait a minute,” Benjy protested, leaping to his spectral feet. Attempting to push the incestuous child rapist back, he glided clear through him. Clothes hit the floor and an atrocity repeated.

As the girl wept and her dad grunted dirty talk, Benjy shouted over them. “Martha, I hope you can hear me! This isn’t hell! You’re trapped inside of yourself! A monstrous bitch of an entity put you here, locked you in your own past so that she can use your body on Earth! She’s outside of it now! You can seize control of yourself back, but there isn’t much time!”   

Satiated for the moment, Mr. Drexel climbed out of bed. With well-honed efficiency, he dressed and made a sly exit.

Blood trickled from her nostril when Martha’s young head resurfaced. “I’m not dead?” she asked. “I can escape from this nightmare?”

“Yes, girl, you’re alive, but Carter won’t be for much longer if you stay here.” It might already be too late, he almost added, but thought better of it.

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Benjy Rothstein. I was friends with your son. We went to school together, hung out quite a bit.”

“Douglas,” she sighed. “He’s lived years without me, huh? When he was just a newborn, I had a nightmare that I strangled him. Please tell me he turned out okay.”

That was no nightmare, Benjy might’ve corrected her. You killed him back then and then he died again, years later, horribly. Instead, detesting himself for it, he lied: “Douglas is fine, Martha. You’ll see him again if we hurry.”

Mr. Drexel returned, dressed in naught but stained underpants, fondling himself. Wordlessly, he slid into bed with his daughter. 

When it was over and the brute had departed, Martha, aware that another rape would soon arrive, said, “How can I escape this? I’ve been through it all so many, many times. It’s all that I know now.”

“Hmm…actually, I’m not really sure. Do you have any memories of your father from when you were an adult?”

“Only of his funeral. It was open-casket, you know. When no one was looking, I slapped him right in the face.”  

“Well, how did you feel when you did that?”

Martha grinned, beatific. “I felt powerful that day, like I could do anything. The liver cancer had stolen so much weight from him…I probably could’ve hefted him up over my head if I’d wanted to. You know, I asked Carter to marry me just as soon as we got home. He couldn’t believe it, but said yes pretty quickly.” 

“Remember that powerful feeling. Climb into it like armor and fight your father this time. You did nothing wrong. You never deserved such sick treatment. Stand up for yourself. I’ll be here, cheering you on.”

Profoundly, she sighed. “But how can I fight my own memories? They made me feel so ashamed all my life, I never mentioned them to anyone…even Carter.”

“Figure something out.”

Again, the door opened. The recollected villain returned, smirking, secure in the knowledge that no earthly punishment would ever find him. Soon, he’d be feeling lighter on his feet, having extinguished his inner tension for a time and reconfirmed in his mind his own masculinity. 

Mr. Drexel, exhibiting a suburban sort of homeliness, propelled by bestial guile, again shed the illusion of business-suited normalcy. Licking his lips, lascivious, he began to undress—slowly this time, actually attempting seduction. Humming a spontaneous sort of tune, he blinked his eyes again and again as if attempting to stay awake. His muscles were spasming, as if too much adrenaline flowed through them.

“This was the worst of them,” said Martha. “Yes, absolutely. Mom was visiting my uncle that weekend; she drove to San Francisco without us. Dad just kept going and going…stayed in my room all that time. He wouldn’t even let me eat…wouldn’t let me out of his sight.”

Taking his time, clearly enjoying the mental torment he inspired, her father was now nude and advancing. Benjy expected her then, as before, to disappear under the covers.

To his surprise, however, he found himself staring into the eyes of Martha’s fully grown self, who’d reclaimed a body she’d surely inhabited in her prime, pre-pregnancy. Lissome it was, radiating a healthy glow. She wore natural makeup, emphasizing her innate beauty. As she climbed out of bed, her dark hair, so lustrous, flowed to her midback. Barefoot, she sported a retro swing dress; its not-quite-glaring shade of yellow was interspersed with tiny red roses. 

Defiantly folding her arms across her chest, she glowered at her father and shrieked, “Never again!” 

The man seemed not to hear her. Naked and slavering, he stumbled right through Martha—indeed, the lady had become as insubstantial as Benjy—and disappeared into bedclothes that enshrouded, then swallowed him.

Bemused, nearly disappointed, Martha turned back to Benjy and said, “It was as simple as that, huh? Kind of anticlimactic. All that suffering, all those rapes…over and over again…and I just had to stand up to those memories to banish them away?”

“You know, I’m not entirely sure,” Benjy answered. “It might not have been possible with the porcelain-masked entity in here with us. We need to get back to the real world before she returns. If only I knew how to do that.”

Martha furrowed her forehead and asked, “Well, how did you get here in the first place?” 

“Uh…your body kind of inhaled me.”

“Hmm, I guess that the first thing I should do then is return to myself. Maybe I can, I don’t know, spit you out? Whatever the case, goodbye, childhood bedroom. I don’t think that I’ll miss you much.”

Martha squinted and pressed her lips together, concentrating for all she was worth. Responsively, the bright shades of their surroundings bleached into an immaculate whiteness, which absorbed the walls, toys and furniture, leaving Benjy and her floating untethered.

 “Sometimes, as a kid, I’d realize I was dreaming,” said Martha. “Whenever that happened, I’d have maybe a few seconds before the dream unraveled and I opened my eyes in the real world.”

She began to fade from the scene, bleaching as her old bedroom had. “My God, it’s happening, Benjy. My actual eyelids, outside, are gummy, but parting. I can feel my body now. It’s freezing…and aches everywhere. What the hell happened to—”

Then she was gone, leaving Benjy alone in the pale void.

 

Chapter 18

 

 

“The Chinese abolished slow slicing in 1905,” the porcelain-masked entity said, peering down from the ceiling. “Their process was astounding: slices segueing to amputations, execution by 3,600 cuts.” She paused for dramatic effect, and then added, “Perhaps one of you might exceed that total.”

Pinned to the floor as specters took turns nicking them with translucent fingernails, already Carter and the Wilsons bore dozens of shallow wounds apiece. Woozy with blood loss, no longer pleading or sobbing, they stoically endured their slow suffering.

A request poured through the clenched teeth of Oliver Milligan’s skeleton mask: “Let me cut off that bitch’s nipples. I’ll force her brat to eat ’em. A parody of breastfeeding it’ll be. Entertainment for all.”

The porcelain-masked entity nodded. “Later,” she said, “once we’ve neared our crescendo. This bloodletting might span days; there is no reason to rush things.” Addressing the refrigerator-adjacent specters, she declared, “Your moment has arrived, Baxters. Each of you grab a knife and select a victim. Resist the urge to cut deeply. Avoid major veins and arteries.”

Naturally, nude, insane Tabitha bounded forward and seized a blade from the kitchen’s wall-mounted magnetic strip: a serrated carving knife, nine inches in length. “Dibs on the little boy,” she giggled. “I’ll carve my name into his dingdong.”

Her parents and sister, disinclined, remained where they were, staring floorward with nauseated expressions.

The porcelain-masked entity, of course, would not be ignored. “Do as I demand,” she said, “or relive your own murders.” A bit of her intestine gesticulated toward Farrah, who then began shrieking. 

Shed like opera gloves at the end of the night, her translucent skin peeled away from her arms. Blood flowed from exposed musculature and evaporated before striking floor. Every spectral tooth escaped from her gums. Her hood rolled backward and her beanie left her head, permitting pink-and-purple hair clumps to yank themselves from her skull, trailing scalp bits. 

“Stop this!” Olivia Baxter hollered. “Please…leave her alone!”

“We’ll do whatever you want!” added Ren. “Just stop hurting our daughter!”

“Naturally,” the entity responded, and then Farrah was as before, her spectral flesh, teeth, and hair back in place.  

“How can I, a dead chick, still suffer so much?” the girl wondered aloud. 

“Grab your knives, Mom and Dad,” Tabitha urged, tracing her empty eye socket with the tip of her blade. “You, too, Little Sister. It’s been years since we’ve had a family game night.”

“The sun’s out, you moron,” Farrah groused.

“Sometimes night’s a state of mind,” said Tabitha. 

Ren made his way to the knife strip. Dolefully, he evaluated the selection: “Well, the cleaver won’t work well for slicing. Ditto this boning knife over here. This bread knife should work for me. Oh, here’re some steak knives for my ladies.”  

With that, they each had a blade. 

“Hurry up, you guys,” Tabitha whined. “Let’s start cutting already. A real bonding experience.”

Her parents and sister scanned Carter, Emmett, and Celine in turn, seeking an indication of evil, any sign whatsoever that their punishments were warranted. Finding naught but stunned agony, detesting themselves for their compliance, they debated.

“I can’t do the woman,” said Farrah. “I just…can’t.”

“Me neither,” said Olivia. “Ladies have to stick together.”

“Okay, I’ll slice the poor thing,” said Ren, shaking his silver-capped head. “I’d ask God to forgive me but, you know…there doesn’t seem to be one.”

“Well, that leaves the old guy and the black man,” said Farrah. “I can’t hurt a person of color. That’s racist.”

“I don’t want to cut him either,” said Olivia. “I donated to the NAACP once.”

“Sure, you did.”

“Tell her, Ren.”

Ren, wise to the nuances of female argumentation, well aware that choosing any side would earn him a cold shoulder, kept his mouth shut. 

“Fine, I’ll cut the black man,” Olivia conceded. “The things parents do for their children…there should be medals awarded.”

Unbeknownst to all present, Martha Drexel had awakened. Dehydrated, starving, she attempted to moan, but her bleeding lips could only unleash an impotent hiss. Her muscles had wasted away. Her entire body ached. She was feverish and hardly seemed to be breathing. Attempting to rise from the floor, immediately overwhelmed by dizziness, she returned to her sprawl. 

My skin is so shriveled, she noticed. My God, I’ve gone cronish.

Her gaze found the specters, and then the quartet of sufferers that could scarcely be glimpsed through them. They’re being tortured, aren’t they? she thought. Look, that one there’s just a child. And that guy beside him…could it be? So fat now…so bald. It’s him. It must be.

Summoning a scintilla of speech, she managed to rasp, “Carter.” If anybody present heard her, they showed no sign of it. 

Tabitha, crouched above the pinned Graham Wilson, cooed, “There, there, little boy. It’s okay, your favorite auntie is here now.” She planted a kiss on his bloody forehead, then moved her lips closer to his ear to whisper, “You know, you really should thank me. I’m going to carve your pecker up real nice before it can get you into trouble.”

Softly, Graham moaned. Tears flowed from his eyes, into shallow wounds.

Positioning himself astride Celine, Ren said, “You know, I’m really sorry about all this. If there was any other way…I mean, I’m not into hurting women.”

Though agony had left her shell-shocked, Celine recovered enough of her personality to hiss, “Burn in hell.”

 Leaning over Carter, Farrah kept mute. By the expression on her face, it was clear that, had she been alive, she’d have been vomiting. Her soon-to-be victim, too, remained silent, gazing past his current circumstances, into a tranquil, hypothetical realm that could never be. 

“Why can’t you leave him alone?” asked Elaina, crouched at Carter’s opposite side, gushing evaporating tears. She’d maintained that position throughout all of his tortures, whispering that she loved him, unable to assist him. 

“Wish that I could, ma’am,” said Farrah.

Easing herself down until she sat, weightlessly, upon Emmett’s broad chest, Olivia felt compelled to assure him, “This isn’t race-related, you know. I’d just as soon be cutting up a white man. Better yet, nobody.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” Emmett replied through gritted teeth. “Clearly, you’re a wonderful person.”

“Mommy, Daddy, Little Sis, let’s start the fun already,” giggled Tabitha. “Are you ready? One, two, three!” Seizing Graham’s oversized Chargers shirt and yanking it up, she unveiled the boy’s Superman boxer shorts.

Realizing that penile disfigurement would be arriving in seconds, Graham grew animate. “No!” he shrieked, thrashing in the grips of his spectral restrainers. “No, no, no, no, no, no!”

“Yes, yes, I’m going to cut up your no no place. Be a good boy and lie still for your auntie.”

“Seriously, Tabitha,” Farrah groaned, resting the tip of her blade on Carter’s forehead, “keep it above the belt, will you? This sucks hard enough as it is.”

“Quiet, Little Sister. Don’t spoil my fun.”

“Come on. He’s just a kid.”

“Boys become men, become stalkers, become rapists, become demons. They secretly film you, then masturbate to that footage with their friends.”

Farrah sighed to herself, then muttered, “Crazy bitch.” To Carter, she said, “My apologies, dude. Trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else at this moment.” Gently, she took his hand and sliced a new line into his palm. Fascinated despite her qualms, she watched blood well up from it. How much can this guy lose before he becomes a ghost like the rest of us? she wondered. 

After some hesitation, Ren said, “Listen, lady. I know that you’re hurting. Believe me, I’d help ya if I could. But, seeing that I’m choosing between my family’s suffering and yours, and you’re getting tortured today anyway, my hands are kinda tied here. I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll cut you above your hairline…spare that pretty face of yours for the moment.” Pushing his bread knife between her dark locks, he began to saw lightly, wettening his blade. Raising his voice to address the porcelain-masked entity, he asked, “Is this good enough for you? I don’t have to cut deeper, do I?”

“All is fine for the moment,” the demoness answered. 

Olivia Baxter, with her family’s focuses elsewhere, underwent a change of demeanor. A lecherous glint met her eyes; her lips became pouty. Reaching beneath her church fundraiser sweatshirt, she fondled her right breast. “Such a sweet, sweet man,” she whispered, grinding her buttocks on Emmett’s chest. She traced his jawline with her blade, hardly cutting at all.

“I’m married, you crazy bitch!” Emmett shouted, loud enough to draw Ren’s attention.

“Oh, darling…darling,” Ren said, abandoning Celine to seize his wife by the shoulders. “You’re supposed to be torturing this guy, not getting yourself off.”

“Marriage vows end in death, asshole,” Olivia spat. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re both single again.”

Ren met her blazing gaze. Realizing that she meant what she’d said, profoundly saddened, he returned to his victim.

Simultaneously, Tabitha, relishing the terror she inspired—in no real hurry to begin cutting, now that the opportunity had arrived—tugged Graham’s boxers down an inch. “Maybe I’ll chop the whole thing off,” she giggled, “along with that pair of prunes down below it. I’ll make you my pretty, pretty princess. You’d be into that, wouldn’t you?”

Violently, Graham shook his head negative. 

“Well, too bad,” remarked Tabitha, sliding the boy’s boxers down another inch. 

Just then, with hairless genitals on the verge of exposure, a grating, long-unused voice arrived. “Leave my husband alone,” Martha demanded, now standing. Swaying on her feet, she kept her arms splayed for balance. Pain and fever squinched her face. Still, her eyes were determined. 

The ghostly torturers paused their efforts. Farrah dropped her blade. Even the porcelain-masked entity was taken aback. Swiveling her ruined face, and the dispassionate oval that adorned it, she asked Martha, “How have you returned to yourself?”

“Would you believe that I made a friend?”

Drifting down from the ceiling, propelled by undulous shadows, the entity positioned herself so that the eye hollows of her mask were mere millimeters from Martha’s bleary gaze. “What has climbed inside of you?” she asked. “Another specter, it seems. Not one of mine. How curious.”

Lightning-fast, a tendril of shadow slid between Martha’s lips and made its way down her gullet, freezing the woman statue-still. It withdrew moments later, enwrapping a familiar figure. 

Immediately, Benjy’s eyes swept the scene and landed on the sufferers. “Oh, Emmett,” he said, “what have they done to you?” He turned to the porcelain-masked entity and added, “Gah!”

“You are linked with this man’s life,” said the demoness. “Never far from his side, never truly independent. After I kill him, you shall become my pet, too.”

At that, Benjy smirked. “Oh, fuck off already, you refried bitch.”

“I remember you, child. Young Benjamin Rothstein, dead many years now. I was there, unseen, the night that Douglas Stanton’s feet cratered your skull. The taste of his guilt and sorrow was sublime.”

“My son…killed you?” asked Martha.

“Not on purpose,” said Benjy. “It was one of those swing set accidents that probably happy all the time. My fault entirely. I should’ve watched where I was walking.” 

“O…kay.”

Irate at being ignored for even a mere moment, the porcelain-masked entity proclaimed, “Enough of this intermission. Martha, remain where you are. I shall repossess you soon enough. I’ll wring out every bit of life left within you, then locate another traumatized human to inhabit.” To the Baxters, she said, “Resume your cutting.”

“With pleasure,” said Tabitha, her intent quite predacious.

“Where’d my knife go?” asked Farrah. 

Her question was answered most dramatically when Martha again collapsed, this time with a steak knife’s wooden handle protruding from her chest. Blood surged forth around it. So too did a vitiated blood vessel spill crimson into her injured airway, gore which the woman coughed up.  

Above her stood Elaina, her hand yet outthrust. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, “but I couldn’t let Carter die.”

Elbowing his partner, Special Agent Sharpe chuckled. “Someone should have been watching that gal,” he said. “You can never predict a wife’s behavior.”

“Eh, you can’t win ’em all,” Special Agent Stevens replied. 

As the light faded from her eyes, as her pained countenance grew relaxed, Martha voiced her last words, “I cherish you, Carter,” she said. “Thank you for being my husband. Tell Douglas that I love him, and that he should always be…good to people.” 

Before the porcelain-masked entity could disabuse Martha of her notions—inform her that Carter had divorced her and her son was long dead—the woman drifted out from her body. Summoned by the afterlife that exists, unseen by the living, within the starfield above us, she ascended into a realm where her every sin and ingrained trauma would be shed. 

“Goodbye, Carter,” said Elaina, no longer earthbound. Enraptured, she followed Martha into the firmament.

Next went the Baxters, Tabitha shrieking all the while, her depraved ambitions thwarted. Then went the special agents, along with an assortment of dead vagrants, and all the rest of those who’d perished in Milford Asylum. 

“Are you ready to move on?” Bexley Adams asked Lemuel Forbush. The boy nodded his head and then they, too, were ascending. 

“Wait for me,” said Wayne Jefferson, never one to linger. 

Behind his Day-Glo orange skull mask, Oliver Milligan cackled. “To the dead realm I go! What past victims there await me?”

Soon, the only presences that remained were Benjy, the porcelain-masked entity, and her latest four victims, who carefully maneuvered themselves into sitting positions, moaning all the while. 

“Know that I shall return,” rasped the demoness. “Extreme suffering summons me. On this planet, with humans ever acting in accordance with their natures, there will never be a shortage of it.”

“We know,” said Benjy. “Now get the fuck outta here.”

The entity’s welt-covered, contused limbs were swallowed by the shadows, as were her pallid mask and the acrimonious face beneath it. A torrent of curses sounded and faded, and then the shadows unraveled. 

The kitchen regained its cheerful aspect, as did its sole remaining specter. Surveying those who yet lived, he remarked, “Well, you’re all sliced up pretty badly, but the cuts are shallow enough. You shouldn’t be scarred up too much once they’ve all healed.”

“That’s…good to know,” said Carter, unable to wrench his gaze away from his ex-wife’s corpse.  

Emmett threw an arm around Celine and an arm around Graham. As his blood intermingled with theirs, as sudden optimism overwhelmed him, he unleashed a chuckle hardly discernable from a croak, then said, “Well, what are you waiting for, you phantom asshole? Dial us up an ambulance already.”

Chapter 14

 

 

Special Agent Norton Stevens never slept all that soundly. Having grown up with three older brothers and far too little parental supervision, he had, in his youth, awakened many times to the smack of a sock-with-a-balled-sock-in-it, the convulsive shock of cold water, and the all-out assault to the senses that is a bared ass breaking wind. So, when the phone on his chipped nightstand started to sound, he picked it up before the third ring. The caller ID revealed the expected. 

“Yeah, what is it, partner?” he grunted. 

Small talk was alien to their relationship, so Sharpe got right to it. He’d just gotten a call; he didn’t say from whom. Trouble had been reported at the Stanton place. Apparently, the poor fella got slapped around a bit and trapped in his own jacuzzi. Sharpe was already on his way to pick Stevens up, E.T.A. in eight minutes. Their meeting had been moved up to now.

Stevens climbed out of bed, drained his bladder and sighed. After wriggling his way into a suit and holstering his weapon of choice, his Glock 17, he made his way into the kitchen. A cup of Keurig coffee, chugged down in two gulps, led to another. Then puffing away at an e-cig, relishing its mango vapor, he luxuriated in a small, quiet moment that imploded when an insistent fist met his door.

“Stevens, you ready?” Sharpe thundered from the hallway.

“Damn right I am, partner,” Stevens called back, slipping on a pair of black Rockports, tying their laces nice and snug. 

His apartment was sparsely furnished, undecorated, practically unlived in, he noticed for the umpteenth time as he marched to his front door. Pulling it open, he leapt back in startlement, a strangled half-cry unraveling in his mouth. 

“Hey, sorry about this,” said Sharpe, as he glided inside. The man was translucent and sorrow-eyed, frowning as if he’d been born that way. “They got me while I was sleeping. Now I’m some demoness’ puppet.”

Stepping backward, his hands in motion, spasmatic, generating ineffective wards, Stevens said, “I…I don’t understand. What the fuck’s happened to you, partner? Am I dreaming?”

“I’ve got to tell you, buddy. I never expected to go out that way. I thought it would be a fast bullet or slow cancer that stole my body away from me. Instead, I woke up a wisp person. Never even had a chance to fight for my life.” Slowly, he shook his head. “Pal, it’s a cryin’ shame.”

Buddy? Pal? Stevens wondered, unaccustomed to Sharpe referring to him by anything other than his last name. The coiled-spring aspect the man had worn in life had deserted him, replaced by soft resignation. His eyes had shed all intensity. Why, then, did he continue to advance?

“So I thought, hey, I’d give you the chance they denied me. The two of us, we were doomed as soon as we began investigating Martha Drexel…the demoness’ host body. Her ghosts are here for you now. You’re awake, dressed and armed. Flee or fight, brother? What’ll it be? Don’t just stand there. Make your death interesting.”

Through every wall they now streamed, their eyes burning avariciously, their mouths ebon whirlpools. Stevens recognized many of the specters, having studied their shed bodies in photographs and in person. 

There was the Milford Asylum crowd: staff and patients united, in death social equals. There was Elaina Stanton and, God help him, little Lemuel Forbush. One skeleton-masked fellow made Stevens think, The Hallowfiend! But it can’t really be him! The man’s an urban legend, nothing more! Besides, if there’s even a shred of truth to his story, how could anybody ever kill him? 

Strangers, too, crept upon him, unmissed loners and vagrants. Shadow tendrils flickered in and out of visibility around all, puppet strings linking the dead to their controller. 

Fight or flee indeed, Stevens thought. But how can I possibly defeat insubstantial attackers? Are they vulnerable to scripture? Will that frighten ’em off?

Having ceased attending church services the very instant that he moved out of his parents’ house post-high school, he wasn’t exactly overbrimming with biblical quotations. Still, Stevens managed to, with emphasis, string together a handful of “Thou shalt not”s from memory. 

The ghosts’ laughter arrived charnel. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a preacher,” said the masked one. “Goody-goodies are so fun to torture.”

“No torture for this guy, Oliver,” said Sharpe. “He’s my partner…my friend. We’ll make it quick for him.”

“Seriously,” groaned a young lady with a beanie and hood overwhelming her pink and purple hair, “some of you ghosts are straight-up sickos.”

A naked, one-eyed gal retorted, “Don’t be such a pussywillow, Farrah. You haven’t spilled a drop of blood yet. Neither have Mom and Dad. What, do you think that you can get into some imaginary kingdom of heaven if you’re good? This is all that we have now. Enjoy yourself.”

Her parents drifted through the ghost throng to say, in unison, “That’s enough, Tabitha. We didn’t raise you to act like this.” A relatable sort of family drama, certainly, though one of little interest to Stevens at the moment. 

 Ghost fingernails slipped through his clothing to rake at his flesh. So cold were they that he hardly felt the abrasions. Blood stippled his suit. He was entirely surrounded. 

“Fuck it,” he shouted, pulling his gun from its holster. Wrenched out of his hands, tossed from specter to specter, it disappeared into the depths of his apartment, never to be seen again. 

“No firearms,” the skeleton-masked man bellowed. “It’s no fun if it’s over too quickly!”

“What did I just tell you?” said Sharpe. “This man’s to be respected. I’d snap his neck myself, just to spare him slow agony, but I just can’t bring myself to harm so much as a hair on his head.”

“Thanks a fuckin’ lot, partner,” Stevens grunted, thrashing for arm space. Achieving it, he threw jabs and uppercuts that sailed through his opponents. His kicks fared no better. The ghosts could assault but were immune to all injury. 

Death was all around him. Its sickly-sweet bouquet assaulted his nose and taste buds, leaving him gagging, swaying on his feet with his head swimming. There was nowhere to run to. No savior would arrive to drive his persecutors away. Sharpe’s “flee or fight” urging had been nothing more than hollow rhetoric. 

A fist connected with his forehead; a foot met his groin. Stevens doubled over and fell to the floor. 

Targeting his cheeks and neck, phantom teeth tore away flesh and spat it to the carpet. Burrowing into his abdomen, ghosts pulled forth entrails—purple-grey small intestine, brownish-red large intestine. Those digestive tubes, to Stevens’ blood-dimmed vision, hardly seemed to belong to his body. Mega worms they were, slaves to simple impulses, glutted on the minerals, nutrients, and feces that Stevens’ lifetime had provided them. Soon, they would starve to death. 

Simple desires arrived, torturous. If only I could feel the sun on my skin again, Stevens thought. If I could play hoops with my nephew, or give my parents a call. If I could blow a few thou at a casino, just like in the old days. If I could eat steak and lobster. If I could get laid one more time. That would be…well, that would be something.

For a moment, time froze. His assaulters seemed naught but frozen three-dimensional images, straw folks sculpted of lasers and holograms. Then the chill that had inundated him vanished and he felt nothing at all, save for a throb of mourning, sorrow shaped by all that he might have been. His spirit form rose; his partner embraced him.

“Now that all the unpleasantness is over with,” said Sharpe, “we’d best be on our way.”

Stevens wanted to argue. He felt the afterlife’s pull, that celestial summons, but Sharpe’s grip kept him earthbound. Unwilling to glance at his own corpse for even a quick moment, he allowed himself to be escorted from his apartment—through its walls, into the pitiless morning. The sun reserved its warmth solely for the living. 

A gray minivan awaited them, idling, an emaciated wretch of a woman at its steering wheel. She looked alive, but just barely. Behind her, a mixed-race, far more vital, grade-schooler sobbed, clad in an oversized Chargers shirt and boxers.

Attempting to console the child, a mid-forties, auburn-haired specter that Stevens recognized as Bexley Adams rested her insubstantial hand on his shoulder and murmured that everything would be alright, though the expression on her face argued otherwise. Unlike the other specters, she’d been permitted to remain in the parking lot and escape the sight of Stevens’ demise, to babysit a boy her controller held only ill intentions for. Now, that entity’s host—the unhygienic crone whose hospital gown seemed to be putrefying—rotated to face her. 

“Back into the depths?” Bexley muttered. 

The wizened remains of Martha Drexel nodded. 

“Wow, that really sucks. Why don’t you let me keep this little guy company for a while longer instead?”

Ghastly mirth flowed through cracked lips, which then widened and widened, until blood ran down Martha’s chin. 

“Yeah, I knew you’d be a dick about it,” said Bexley, as she began to dissolve into green mist strands. “Couldn’t help but try, though.”

With one spirit swallowed, Martha turned to the others. Down her howling gullet went the nurses, the psychiatrists, the orderlies, and their erstwhile patients who’d never regain sanity. Into illimitable vastness, a ponderously churning darkness, disappeared the Baxters, Wayne Jefferson, Elaina Stanton, Lemuel Forbush, and costumed, cackling Oliver Milligan. All the while, wide-eyed, young Graham Wilson made not a peep. 

“You ready, partner?” Special Agent Sharpe asked rhetorically.

“Fuck you, Sharpe,” Special Agent Stevens replied. “Being stuck together like this, for who knows how long…I think this is my new definition of hell.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

Thinning and flowing into malleable mist, they entered the realm of the porcelain-masked entity.

 

Chapter 15

 

 

“Wow, that’s some kind of fucked-up story,” said Celine. To cool her feverish flesh, she thrust an arm out of the passenger side window, exactly as she’d done during childhood road trips; serpentlike, that limb rode the wind. “When this is all over, if we’re both still alive, we’re going to have ourselves a serious talk, Emmett.”

“If that’s what you wanna do,” he answered, keeping his eyes on the road, gripping the steering wheel with such force that it seemed liable to shatter. “I probably shouldn’t have kept so many secrets from you.”

“‘Probably shouldn’t have’…you sorry son of a bitch. There’s been a ghost in our house all this time and you said nothing about it.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s just Benjy, not a scary one.”

“Oh, I can be scary,” Benjy chirped from the speaker of Emmett’s iPhone. 

“Shut up!” both Wilsons demanded.

Yet on the offensive, Celine added, “I don’t care if he’s scary. He’s probably seen me naked a billion times by now…and even watched us screw.”

Emmett cleared his throat and said nothing. She punched him in the arm. “I knew it! I fuckin’ knew it!” Of Benjy, she asked, “Did that get you off, you little peeper? Do you like the shape of my tits?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

“Ugh. I don’t…this is too hard to process. Let’s just get Graham back and we’ll sort all this out later.”

Travelling well over the speed limit, they turned onto Avenida Ondulada. Seconds later, Emmett parked. 

“Hey, this is Carter Stanton’s place,” Benjy noted. “That van is two houses up. Look, you can see it over there, in the driveway.”

Emmett scowled down at his phone. “Yeah, I know, dipshit. But we were meeting with Carter later today. We might as well see if he’ll come with us. I mean, who knows his ex-wife better than he does? If there’s any way to get through to her, to reach the real Martha and drive the entity from her body, Carter might just be the guy to do it.”

“Good idea. In fact, I was just about to suggest it.”

“Like hell you were.”

As a real estate investor, Carter was no stranger to the value of curb appeal. His lawn was vibrantly green and perfectly mowed. No oil stains marred his driveway; his gutters were leaf-free. Just six months prior, he’d shelled out a hefty fee to have his home power washed and painted an eye-catching color scheme: white, grey and dove blue. Warmly inviting, a solar powered lantern was mounted near the front door. In fact, the morning seemed to brighten in the property’s presence. 

“Wait here,” Emmett told Celine.

“Fuck you,” she answered, unsurprisingly. 

They exited the car, then were knocking. No one arrived to greet them. 

“Is this guy a deep sleeper or what?” asked Celine. 

“What do I look like, his biographer?” Emmett tried the knob. “Locked,” he grunted. He rang the doorbell six times, wanting to shout Carter’s name, but fearing that it might draw the porcelain-masked entity’s attention, if she wasn’t observing them already. Could he break into the house without facing arrest? Would Carter forgive him?

He had his phone in his free hand. Benjy chirped from its speaker, “Listen, Emmett, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

Emmett scowled at his phone. This is all Benjy’s fault, he thought. If he hadn’t got me looking into Martha Drexel and that demon-bitch piloting her, Graham would be safe and I’d still be in bed. Is Celine going to leave me? Can I stand to live alone again? Fuck you, Benjy. 

Quickly realizing that his malice was misplaced, that even if he hadn’t investigated all the spectral slaughter, Graham might still have gone missing, he allowed a bit of tension to flow out of him. “Is this really the time?” he muttered. The longer that Celine and he lurked on Carter’s doorstep, the more suspicious they’d appear. Though neighbors occupied neither sidewalks nor lawns at the moment, one might’ve been peering, clandestine, through window slats, ready to dial 911. 

“Yes, you big doofus, this is the time. You know how the porcelain-masked entity’s ghosts can manifest in three-dimensional space?”

“Yeah, we just saw a bunch of ’em. What’s your point?”

“Well, haven’t you wondered why I can only manifest on screens, and why I’m only able to talk to you through speakers?”

“It’s crossed my mind. Do you have an answer?”

“As a matter of fact, I do…and it just so happens to be you. My dead essence is linked to your living one, man, the same way that all those ghosts you saw are linked to Martha Drexel. They can materialize because the porcelain-masked entity wants them to. Well, guess what. Subconsciously, you’ve been preventing me from doing the same thing.”

“I have?”

“Yes, Emmett, you have. You don’t really want me around—it’s okay, I forgive you—and because of that, I’ve been limited to floating around you invisibly all the time, never far from your side. But if you concentrate, if you really wanna see me again, standing in front of you just like I did all those years ago, I can take on a wisp form duplicating my lost body.”

“Really? With the head bashed in and everything?”

“Well, I’ll probably go for a pre-caved-in-skull look. I’m vain like that. So, what do you say? If you will me a little autonomy, I should be able to leave your close proximity. I can drift inside Carter’s house and wake him if he’s asleep, and you can stay here, on the doorstep, without breaking any laws.”

“Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me this before? I could’ve skipped trespassing that night, and spared myself the sight of that Forbush kid’s corpse.”

“You found Lemuel Forbush’s corpse?” squawked Celine, every trace of her tan draining from her face. “You broke into a house and didn’t tell me? Oh, Emmett.”

Unsure how to respond to that, he chose to ignore her, instead asking the boy in his speakerphone, “Well?”

Benjy’s chubby, pixelated face went hangdog. “Okay, I’ll admit it,” he answered. “I could have told you this before, and chose not to…but that was only because I wanted a team up. Why should I have to see a gruesome sight all by myself? Sure, I’m dead, but I still have feelings. I get scared and disgusted sometimes, and wanted my best friend by my side to share that unpleasantness.”

“Shit, man. That’s damn uncool of you. But, hey, whatever, let’s try this your way. You say that if I want you three-dimensional, you’ll appear before us, just as simple as that?”

“Sure thing, Emmett.”

“Okay, well, here I go.” Attempting to concentrate, Emmett crinkled his forehead and squinted. He squeezed his hands into fists, relaxed them, and squeezed them again. “I feel like an idiot,” he muttered. “Do I look feebleminded to you, Celine?”

“You look just as handsome as ever, baby. Now shut your stupid-ass mouth and do what the ghost boy says.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Within his clouded mind, Emmett conjured the past. He regressed to his elementary school self, that scrawny, awkward bundle of energy who went ignored by the cool kids, who dreamed of becoming a celebrity of some sort and making his family proud. Through his old, immature perspective, he recalled Benjy Rothstein. 

The most indelible image he could conjure of his friend was that of the day Benjy had shown up to school with his new “tough guy” look. Having shaved away his red cowlick, and exchanged his mother-purchased duds for a skull shirt, jean shorts, a quickly-confiscated chain wallet, and Vans sneakers, he’d abandoned all but his black horn-rimmed glasses. It was the coolest he’d ever looked, and his demeanor had shifted responsively. Soon, he’d even landed himself a girlfriend. 

Emmett closed his eyes so as to see that version of his friend all the clearer, willing a specter to take shape in the real world. When he reopened them, Benjy was standing before him, exactly as envisioned, save, of course, for the fact that he was entirely translucent. 

“See, I told you it would work,” Benjy declared, beaming. 

“That you did, asshole. That you did.”

They stood there for a moment, in the brightening day, before Celine cleared her throat and said, “Well, get on with it, kid. Find this Carter Stanton guy and let’s get goin’.” Graham could be suffering unimaginable tortures already, she almost added, but couldn’t seem to wrap her mouth around the words. 

“Righto,” said Benjy, flowing through the door. Moments later, though it seemed to the anxious Wilsons as if hours had elapsed, he returned. “There’s nobody but the dog inside,” he declared. “The backyard’s another story, though. Come on.”

They rounded the house and opened its gate. Threading a garden of poppies and daisies, a path composed of square cement tiles and black pebbles led to Carter’s back patio. Jogging as if full bore sprinting might lead to synchronized faceplants, feeling that unseen shadows were closing in all around them, the Wilsons spared not a second to admire Carter’s expensive American Muscle Grill, and soon reached the property’s rock-rimmed pool and jacuzzi. A manmade waterfall vomited steady splashing; all else was silent. 

“What the hell?” exhaled Emmett.  

“Who piled that shit on the jacuzzi?” asked Celine. 

“Just shut up and help me move it,” Benjy urged. “Carter’s trapped there…half-crazy already, I bet. I told him we’d help him, but can’t budge a bed and refrigerator all by myself. So much for ghost strength, I guess.”

They braced themselves against the fridge. “One, two, three,” grunted Emmett. Heaving himself against the appliance in unison with his wife and dead friend, he provided the bulk of the force that rolled it off of the bed, onto the back patio. The collision hurled its doors and drawers open. Milk, juice, beer, eggs, sweet peppers, onions, chicken breasts, burger patties, and Eggo waffles came tumbling out. Ignoring them, the trio hefted Carter’s bed up and tossed it aside. 

There the man was: waterlogged, mouth agape, squinting at sudden sunlight. “Benjy,” he gasped, “I thought I’d imagined you.”

“Nobody could imagine someone this handsome. Now climb up out of there, Mr. Stanton. Towel yourself off and put on some dry clothes.”

*          *          *

“So…your son’s over there now? At Wayne Jefferson’s place? With those ghosts and whatever the hell’s possessing Martha?” No longer drenched, nearly rational, Carter gulped a glass of tap water. Pinching his earlobe, he grimaced at ghastly mental imagery. Dreaming canine dreams, Maggie lay at his feet.

“That’s right,” said Celine, who hadn’t been properly introduced to the man and hardly cared at the moment.

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s head on over there now. If there’s even a chance he can be rescued…” He trailed off for a moment, then said, “Weapons. We’ll need weapons. Would crucifixes or Bible verses work on the entity?”

“I doubt it,” said Benjy. 

“Damn. Well, I was never all that religious anyway. Did you guys bring a gun, at least?”

“Never owned one,” said Emmett. 

“Well, I guess we can load up on knives and hammers here. If we can’t drive the entity out of Martha, however that might be accomplished, we’ll just have to kill the poor woman. May her spirit forgive us.”

Without warning, the lights went out.

 

Chapter 16

 

 

Of course, it being early in the day, interrupted electricity hardly brought darkness. Opening window blinds restored the kitchen’s bright cheeriness. “I’ll have to check the fuse box later, if we survive this,” said Carter.

Emmett glanced to his own arms, which had sprouted goosebumps. “It’s getting colder in here. Might not be a blown fuse.”

“Don’t you feel that?” Celine asked. “It’s like something’s…watching us.”

“Quick, grab some knives,” said Carter. “There’s no telling when—” A sight stole his speech: shadows pouring through the walls and occluding the windows. 

“Benjy, what should we do?” Emmett asked, panicking. The ghost boy had vanished, he realized. Glancing at his iPhone screen, he found him absent there, too. 

The tenebrosity flowed over the walls, floor, ceiling, furniture and appliances. No longer could they see one another. Emmett seized his wife’s hand, feeling entirely impotent, and blurted an “I love you” as if it were an apology. 

Sonance arrived: somebody knocking on the sliding glass door. “Mr. Stanton, are you in there?!” a familiar voice shouted. “This is Special Agent Charles Sharpe! My partner’s here, too! There’s some kinda phenomenon affecting your house!”

Now Maggie was awake, on her paws, barking as ferociously as her little lungs permitted.

“I’m here!” Carter shouted back. “I can’t see anything, but I’m here!”

“Hold on! We’re coming in!” 

Muscle memory carried Carter toward his sliding glass door. He needn’t have wasted the effort, for, glowing, translucent, the investigators drifted through the wall. 

“Sorry, we’re a bit early for our meeting,” said Stevens, dismissively flourishing his hand. 

“Yeah, about that,” said Carter. “As it turns out, now’s not a great time for me. Things came up; you know how it is. Maybe we can reschedule. How’s next month sound? I’ll order us a pizza and we’ll chug a few beers.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t want to trouble you,” said Sharpe. “Food and drink lose their appeal when you’re dead. Most things do, really.” Turning his steely gaze toward the Wilsons, he said, “You must be the friends Carter mentioned when he called me.”

“Uh, sure. I’m Emmett. This is my wife Celine.”

“Oh, the Wilsons, of course. I met your son earlier. Cute kid, but a bit of a fraidy cat.”

“Graham,” said Celine. “You didn’t…hurt him, did you? I don’t care if you are dead. I’ll find some way to make you suffer if you did.”

“Now, now, now,” said Stevens. “There’s no need whatsoever to get off on the wrong foot here. We came, as promised, to discuss…what were we going to discuss again, partner?”

“These folks were going to attempt to convince us of the existence of ghosts. Isn’t that right, Carter?”

“Well…”

The dead agents chuckled. “Consider us convinced,” said Sharpe. “And, hey, we found your ex-wife. Her husk, anyway.”

“Actually, it found us,” Stevens corrected. “Now here we are, dead, forced into servitude.”

“I’m…sorry?” said Carter, quite ill at ease. “Why don’t you help us defeat her possessor? You’ll earn your freedom, probably.”

“It’s not that easy,” said Sharpe. “By killing and claiming us, the demoness yoked us to her will. We can’t act against her or she makes us feel agony. If we go where she wants and do what she wishes, though, she allows us to feel a sliver of the pleasure we’d felt while alive. That’s how she makes regular specters into killers.” 

“So, you’re here to kill us?” asked Celine. “Will you shoot us with some kind of ghost guns? Is that a thing?” 

Stevens shook his head negative. “Ma’am, there’re no such things as ghost guns. We could fire real guns if there were any around.”

“As for killing you,” said Sharpe, “our master was quite clear that nobody could harm Martha’s ex-husband until Martha’s body arrived. She must be sentimental in that regard. No, we’ve been sent here to act as heralds, a bit of theatricality to kick off the feature presentation.”

“So, without further ado,” chimed in Stevens, “let’s bring in the star of this shindig…the one, the only Martha Drexel-wearing entity.”

Hearing the house’s front entrance fly open and rebound off the wall, they swiveled their eyes to the form aforementioned, which didn’t seem to walk, so much as slide on its tiptoes. The shadows parted around it to permit visibility. 

Clearly, Martha’s body had soiled and wet itself countless times since escaping Milford Asylum. Indeed, it was filthy, and wafted a pungency that inspired gagging. Its hospital gown seemed half-dissolved. Blood trickled from its lips, which its teeth chewed relentlessly.

“Martha,” Carter whispered, hardly believing his own eyes. He thought that seeing his wife in her asylum bed, long-unresponsive, all those times over the years had steeled him for the worst. But her body had shed even more weight, as if she’d gone weeks without nourishment. Her hair had greyed, and was now missing clumps, revealing bits of scalp that seemed to writhe with subcutaneous worms. Her eyes were crimson, as if their every blood vessel had detonated. Runnels of snot slid from her nostrils, unwiped. 

Martha’s hand gripped that of her companion, Graham Wilson. Alive and unharmed—physically anyway—his Chargers shirt hanging down to his knees, he squinted into the darkness as if seeking a savior. 

“Graham!” Celine shouted, attempting to sprint forward. An assortment of phantoms—eight erstwhile mental patients, gibbering—materialized from the darkness to restrain Emmett and her.

“Mom, is that you? Is Dad here?”

“I’m here, Son! Don’t be scared! I won’t let anyone hurt you!” Emmett hollered, while struggling with specters whose unyielding grips birthed fresh bruises.

“Let the boy go, Marth…whoever you are,” said Carter. “Let the Wilsons leave with their son and you can do whatever you like to me.”

Though Martha’s gnawed lips remained motionless, speech oozed forth from between ’em: “You voice your demands as if you possess leverage. Such a pitiable, foolish man you are, Carter. Your flesh and organs will succumb to my whims regardless, as will your souls. Not one of you will leave this house alive.” To illustrate her point, she gestured toward Maggie. Hands manifested from the shadows to seize the corgi by the skull. A quick twist silenced her barking forevermore. Carter was too stunned to react.

“Let Graham go, you bitch!” Celine shrieked, knowing that it was futile. No pity would be found in Martha’s slack, emotionless face, nor in the terrible, ancient presence that dwelt beyond it. Emmett echoed those words, matching every syllable so vehemently that his vocal cords became inflamed. 

“Spatial dimensions are mine to manipulate,” said the entity. “I have opened spaces between spaces, and wider spaces between those. Martha’s form will accommodate your specters quite easily. See the rest of my collection: your soon-to-be fellow captives.”

With a snap of the fingers that shattered a few of Martha’s phalanges, the entity populated the residence with the glowing dead. Men, women and children, sane and deranged, stood united, their forms traced over a darkness they might never escape. 

They surrounded the kitchen island, and even perched upon it. Shoulder to shoulder, their expressions weighted with equal parts awe and loathing, all eyed Martha Drexel. 

Wedged against the refrigerator were the Baxters: Ren embracing Farrah and Olivia, and nude Tabitha aside them, fingering her own eye socket. At the edge of the living room, skeleton-masked Oliver Milligan stood with Wayne Jefferson, who, to distract himself from the horrors soon to transpire, was attempting to recall whether or not he’d ever been inside his neighbor’s home before. 

In the doorway that led from the kitchen to the dining room, Bexley Adams stood with her palms resting upon the shoulders of young Lemuel Forbush, as if she might provide some measure of comfort to one who’d suffered so terribly. So too did Elaina Stanton claim a position beside her husband, to help ease his transition from life to death. 

There were unmourned homeless present, along with all of Milford Asylum’s patients and staff. There were figures sculpted of shadows who seemed to possess intelligences of their own. There were gigglers and weepers, shriekers and gibberers, hissers and murmurers. Each and every one of them fell silent when again the entity’s voice sounded. 

“Now that everyone is assembled, I shall reveal myself,” she said. 

Like a marionette with severed strings, Martha’s body collapsed, ungainly. It seemed entirely lifeless, save for its mouth, which gruesomely stretched to permit an emergence. 

Young Graham, his hand no longer clutched by the possessed woman, might’ve dashed, weeping, into his mother’s embrace, if not for the spectral crowd between them. Instead, he made like everyone else present, and lowered his eyes toward that which thrust itself out from between ruined lips: that nightmarish, feminine figure. 

First came her welt-ridden, bruised hands, one being absent two fingers, followed by the arms they were attached to, both equally mistreated. Then came the entity’s porcelain mask, featureless save for a pair of eye level indentations, around which a head like a clump of minced beef could be sighted. 

As she pushed herself free from sprawled Martha, the entity revealed her vivisected torso, from which bits of small intestine undulated. She might’ve been nude. The way that she draped herself in shadows, it was difficult to be certain. 

To avoid being hemmed in by the spectral rabble, the entity levitated to the ceiling, trailed by the eyes of the living and the dead. Reclining in defiance of gravity, she stared down at her subjects. “So much better,” she rasped. “The constraints of the flesh do grow annoying. If only I could escape them for good and operate on Earth independently, as I once did. Your son thwarted me, Carter, his last living act, leaving me but one link to this sphere: his mother, mad Martha, weak in form and spirit. So little strength she possesses. I cannot leave her body for too long or she’ll perish.” 

After pausing for dramatic effect, she added what seemed a coda: “Surely, we must make the most of our time together.” 

Chapter 10

 

 

Dialing in droves, nigh fanatical, attorneys had pummeled Carter’s voicemail with promises of a hefty settlement. He had a defective airbag lawsuit that couldn’t miss, they claimed. 

He deleted most of the messages, yet mulled others, well aware that something beyond the rational had stolen away both of his wives.

“Elaina, you’re the best lady driver I’ve ever seen,” he’d oft told her, honestly, though the list of other women who’d driven him was both short and familial. She’d laughed and jabbed him in the ribs, just a little bit harder than he’d have preferred, and labelled him a misogynist, but her driving record was perfect. Never did he see her take her eyes off of the road for more than a mere moment, or succumb to even the slightest shade of road rage. For her to cross a median strip was uncanny; it couldn’t have just been an airbag. 

Ghosts. He refused to say the word aloud, but it resounded throughout his mental hollows nonetheless. Poltergeist activity had surrounded Carter for years after Douglas’ birth—phantom voices, floating objects, macabre apparitions. Babysitters refused to work for him; neighbors and other acquaintances shunned his house. Strange deaths were reported, with some young victims gone white-haired. 

Carter knew that paranormal forces had driven his first wife mad and suspected that they’d played a role in his son’s death. Only after Douglas’ murder did they cease terrorizing Oceanside. At least, until recently, until Martha’s disappearance. 

For nearly two decades, he’d gone without sighting a specter. Now, disembodied laughter bedeviled him, not to mention that business with the self-opening browser window. Having presented a tale of a child brutalized in his area, it called to mind the fates of some of Douglas’ classmates, those who’d died inexplicably as the boy progressed through his schooling. 

Carter’s flesh prickled with cold caresses; he felt observed at all times. He knew that soon, very soon, he’d be confronted with a vision that would send him reeling, struggling to retain his sanity—this time without a loved one to turn to. 

Maybe, for that reason alone, he deserved to collect some payment from someone. He certainly didn’t feel up to searching out more real estate, could hardly keep up email and text correspondence with the current contractors he’d hired. After he flipped his current projects—seven in total, Midwestern properties he’d purchased at prices ranging from just over eighty thousand to nearly one million dollars—he wanted to maximize his sleep, perhaps pass into a voluntary coma. He might even sell the residences at a loss, just to be rid of them. 

Maybe I should seek out web reviews for those lawyers, he thought. See who’s the highest rated and call ’em back. Taking a few tentative steps toward the answering machine, he halted, hearing an assertive door knock. 

Every possible presence, at that moment, being entirely unwelcome, Carter hesitated, quivering with rage and impotence, fearful that he’d fold for whosoever had arrived, permit any transgression whatsoever. Why’d I let Elaina drive alone? he wondered, returning to recycling thoughts. Why couldn’t I have died alongside her, comforted her as she passed?

His feet dragged him to the door. Opening it, he beheld the largest African American man that he’d seen in a while. 

Recoiling a bit, then wondering, idly, if that action was a product of ingrained, low-key racism or simple shock at the guy’s size, Carter opened and closed his mouth no less than five times before blurting, “Uh, yes…can I help you?” For some reason, he then bowed and made with a hand flourish. What in some hypothetical god’s name is wrong with me? he wondered, beginning to giggle, so as to abort the shrieks that surely impended. 

Returning to standing, meeting his visitor’s eyes, he was dismayed to find pity in them. The man reached out and gently squeezed Carter’s shoulder. 

Resonant yet somewhat sheepish were his words: “Mr. Stanton…uh, how are you? Sorry, stupid question. I guess you don’t remember me all that well, but my name’s Emmett Wilson. I used to kick it with—”

“My son only had two real friends his entire life—well, three, if you count that girlfriend at the end of it,” Carter interrupted, surprised to find his speech flowing freely. “Of course, I remember you, Emmett. I’d have recognized you right away, but…”

Shuffling his feet, Emmett forced himself to chuckle. Despite the fact that he could have beat Carter Stanton to death with little challenge if he’d wished to, he felt bashful in the man’s presence, returned to his own childhood by the alchemy of an old perspective. The parents of friends, to the young, possess an authority that goes unmentioned. Should they elect to ban you from their house, your friendship with their child is sure to suffer. Enwrapped in residual clout, Carter likely could’ve talked Emmett into doing household chores.

“Yeah, I’ve put on some weight over the years,” Emmett admitted. “And I didn’t have a beard back in the day…and all these grey hairs. Still, Douglas’ and my schooldays don’t seem all that long ago. I still remember sleeping over at your house, playing Marble Madness and eating pizza.”

“And toilet-papering our neighbor’s house?”

Wide-eyed, Emmett asked, “Douglas told you about that?”

Now Carter chuckled, genuinely, hardly audible. “No, but I heard you guys sneaking out late one night and always suspected. Not that I minded. I drove around the next day, found your likely victim, and laughed my ass off. You should have seen some of the stunts my own friends and I pulled, oh, about a thousand years ago, when I was young.”

“Kid Carter, bringing that ruckus.”

“Close enough.” Carter realized that they were lingering. If Emmett doesn’t get to the point quickly, I’ll have to invite him inside, he realized. 

“Hey, man, I heard about your wife. Heard about your ex-wife, too, now that I think about it. Shit, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Like, do you need to talk or something? Maybe over a few beers?”

Carter shook his head negative. “No, I’m doing perfectly fine at the moment. I appreciate you stopping by, though. It means…uh, a lot to me, seeing you again, after all these years. But if there’s nothing else that you need, being a sore, exhausted old man, I’ll have to say goodbye now.”

Now Emmett had to shake his head. “Oh, I didn’t come here to commiserate. That was just social programming. We actually do need to talk…about ghosts.”

“Ghosts,” Carter replied without inflection, wanting to push past his visitor and sprint down the street. 

“Uh-huh. Listen, Mr. Stanton, you and I both know that Douglas was haunted his entire life.”

“He…told you?” Carter heard himself asking, while gripping the doorframe as if that action alone might keep him from toppling over. 

“Not exactly, no. A different friend did. If you remember me after all this time, then surely you remember Benjy Rothstein.”

For a moment, scrunching his face up, gnawing his inner lip, Carter attempted to will himself furious. We both know damn well what happened to that poor child, he thought. My son accidentally killed him that night at the swing set. How dare Emmett bring that up now, after everything that I’ve lost?  But then his morose resignation returned to him. “Yeah, I remember Benjy,” he muttered. “This is going to take a while, isn’t it? Well, goddamn it, man, why don’t you come in?”

*          *          *

“Hey, this place is nice,” Emmett said, appreciatively rubbing the crocodile leather sofa with his free hand. He didn’t immediately sit down, though. Having been led to the kitchen just long enough for beer distribution, then into the living room, he took small sips of IPA, fighting the urge to chug the entire bottle down and ask for another, then maybe another five after that.  

How do I do it? he wondered. How do I bring up the possibility of a supernatural entity and/or entities being responsible for the death of this guy’s wife?

 They hadn’t spoken a word to each other since entering the house. The silence between them, which had started out awkward, rapidly grew all the more so. Emmett’s gut churned; the sight of poor Lemuel Forbush, strewn and rotting, returned to him. Would he end up the same way? Would his son and wife? Would Carter? 

Thus far, the efforts of Benjy and he had resulted in a child corpse’s discovery, nothing else. Was the world improved by it, even slightly? Were Mr. and Mrs. Forbush better off knowing that their son had been tortured to death? Was that terrible closure preferable to hoping and wondering a bit longer? 

What could Carter possibly tell him that justified dragging more darkness into the man’s life? If he knew anything about his ex-wife’s whereabouts, or even possessed an educated guess as to them, then he’d surely already told the authorities everything. If they couldn’t catch her, how were Benjy and Emmett supposed to? 

“So, you brought up your dead friend,” Carter said, eventually. He was staring at the bottle in his hand, as if counting its every bead of condensation, yet hadn’t so much as licked at its contents. To Emmett, his voice seemed to arrive from further reaches. “Benjy Rothstein. Douglas told him about his hauntings and Benjy told you, sometime before he died? Is that right?”

“Well, uh, kind of, but not quite. Benjy didn’t tell me about Douglas’ ghostly encounters until they were bothdead. Those guys had something in common: While he was alive, Benjy saw some spooky shit, too. So did you, from what I’ve heard. Not me, though. The only ghost I’ve ever seen, well, it’s Benjy, and he can only appear on screens, and only talk through speakers. Not even kind of scary.”

“Oh, that’s not fair,” a child’s voice chimed in, all gleeful bluster. “Talking about a fella as if he can’t hear ya. I thought you were raised better than that, Emmett Wilson.”

Of course, the television had powered on, as if autonomously. Spread across its eighty-six-inch screen, rendered in incredible detail by eight million pixels, was Emmett’s constant—often invisible, unheard—companion, Benjy Rothstein. 

Sighting him, Carter jumped, startled, and let loose with a yelp. To his credit, he quickly recovered. 

Maggie, his corgi, rushed in, yipping, to investigate. Realizing that her master was in no immediate danger, she departed the scene just as rapidly—her destination Carter’s bedroom, wherein a pillow awaited, her absolute favorite slumber spot. She’d keep it warm for Carter’s head to appreciate later. 

Emmett, again, found himself speechless. Fortunately, Benjy deployed maximum affability. “Mr. Stanton,” he greeted, “it’s cool to see you again, after all these years.” 

“You look just like you did…before…” were the words that Carter found himself speaking. 

“Before your son kicked my fuckin’ head in? On accident, of course.” Winking, Benjy wiggled a pixelated finger in Carter’s direction. 

“Oh…uh…yeah. He was miserable about that, you know. For…well, until the end, maybe.”

“I know, Carter. Douglas and I met in the afterlife.”

“The afterlife. Sure, why not? You met in the afterlife. And how’s my son doing these days? Comfortable on a cloud somewhere, harp strumming?” 

“Yeah, about that…”

“Not now, Benjy,” said Emmett. 

“No, please, go ahead. Where is phantom Douglas? Hey, maybe he can pay me a visit some time, catch up with his old man.”

“Sorry, but…that’s never gonna happen. Douglas’ soul was recycled, sir, broken down into its teeny-tiniest components, which were combined with other spirit fragments to create a whole bunch of new baby souls.”

“Recycled?” A vague memory of fifth-grade Douglas attempting to explain that post-death process to him, and getting shushed by Carter for his efforts, surfaced. “So there are pieces of him in who knows how many young people?”

“Essentially…uh…yes.”

“Well, that’s…huh.” Carter didn’t know whether to grin or sorrow sob. “Then how come you’re still around?”

“Mr. Stanton, truth be told, when I died, I was too in love with myself to dissolve into the spirit froth. So, what I did was—with Douglas’ help, actually—I tied my spiritual afterlife to Emmett’s life. Now, I’m stuck here on Earth, with him at all times, until he dies. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but things got boring pretty quick.”

“That some kind of insult, fucko?” said Emmett. “Like I ever asked to be haunted by a little pervert. Oh, please excuse my language, Mr. Stanton.”

“Excuse it? When it comes to conversation, content trumps presentation. Go ahead and say whatever you wanna. Like I ever gave a shit. Let’s get back to what Benjy was saying for a second, though, about…what was it…dissolving into the spirit froth. Did my son actually choose to do that, to be recycled into umpteen personalities I’d never recognize, or did something force it upon him?” 

“Actually, believe it or not, Douglas let himself be recycled,” said Benjy. “I don’t think you ever knew it, but your son was a hero. He died for humanity, just like some kind of true-life Jesus.” 

“Self-sacrifice, eh?” Carter scratched his chin. “You’d better explain that.”

“Well, since you asked. The better part of four decades ago, as you well know, you blew a load into your first wife, Martha, and got her pregnant with Douglas.”

“Classy, Benjy. Really classy.”

“Shut up, Emmett. Anyway, nine months later, there the two of you were, at Oceanside Memorial Medical Center, with Martha giving birth. Everything seemed fine and dandy at first, but then she went and strangled your newborn son. Ghosts wreaked havoc all across the hospital for a bit, and after they stopped, Douglas came back to life. Right?”

Carter sighed. “I…guess,” he said. “Honestly, I’ve tried to forget that day. It’s like a half-recalled nightmare, unconnected to sane history.”

“History’s never been sane,” Emmett commented. Prepared to elaborate in some detail, he was a bit disappointed when nobody prodded him to.

“Well, have you ever allowed yourself to wonder what drove an otherwise rational woman entirely out of her mind? There was this…this entity there, Mr. Stanton, this…thing, which appeared as an unimaginably tortured, porcelain-masked woman. She filled Martha’s head with delusions just to get her to commit infanticide. Then she sent half of your son’s soul back to Earth, but kept half of it in the afterlife, so that Douglas could act as a doorway for spirits to travel through. That’s why Oceanside’s hauntings were so bad back then. Only after Douglas got himself shot did things get better for everyone.”

“Oh…kay. I guess that makes some kind of sense…maybe.”

“But we forgot about one thing: the porcelain-masked entity’s connection to Martha. It’s like this: when spirits are recycled into new souls, their strongest fears and hatreds are filtered out, as there’s no place for ’em in a newborn. In the Phantom Cabinet, those bits and pieces drift around for a while, until they collide with other fears and hatreds, again and again, and coalesce with them to form beings more demonic than human. The porcelain-masked entity is one of the, if not the absolute, worst of those coalescences. In fact, as legend has it, she’s built of the most brutal torture memories of humankind’s entire history. From the Holocaust even.”

“Well, of course,” remarked Carter, humorlessly giggling at the absurdity of everything. He felt as if his neurocranium was being crushed, as if reality was now too heavy and would have to be shucked for survival. His fight-or-flight response unleashed hollow howls, sporadically, though he feared that he couldn’t have taken so much as a singular step forward in his current state without toppling onto his face, or thrown a punch that Emmett couldn’t have caught like a lobbed softball.  

“Somehow, the porcelain-masked entity’s composition, in some sorta like calls to like way, connects her to all those living people who’ve been tortured, at some point in their life, beyond all sanity.”

“You’re saying that Martha…”

“At one time or another, must have suffered terribly.”

“She never said anything…”

“Hey, man, for all I know, it could have happened when she was a little girl, and her memories of that time were all repressed. Whenever it happened, though, her suffering connected her to the porcelain-masked entity…and that connection, just like marriage is supposed to be, is for life. Sure, without someone like Douglas—half-in and half-out of the Phantom Cabinet—the entity can’t bring souls from the Phantom Cabinet back to Earth, but what’s to stop her from killing people on Earth and tying their afterlives to Martha’s life, rather than letting them move on?”

“Just like Emmett and your arrangement.”

“Sure. Well, not actually ‘just like.’ Emmett doesn’t order me to kill people for him, to create more ghosts…like we think that the porcelain-masked entity is doing. That bitch won’t be satisfied until every single living human has been murdered, and the endless torture cycle can finally stop. New human souls will have no newborns to downlink to, and the Phantom Cabinet will churn forevermore, insignificant. Wildlife will rule this planet until something new evolves, or aliens arrive, or whatever.”

“Well, that’s some kind of postulation,” Carter admitted. “I can’t say that I believe it, but if what you’re saying is true…”

“Then the porcelain-masked entity doesn’t just have Martha; she also owns Elaina’s soul,” Emmett finished. 

Carter couldn’t imagine a worse fate. 

A moment prior, he’d been fibbing. He believed every word that had slid from his visitors’ mouths. All along, he’d known that there was more to Douglas and Martha’s miserable fates than he’d been aware of. Too timid to investigate, he’d clung to domestic normalcy with every fiber of his being, lest some devil push Carter beyond the breaking point, just for the fun of it. 

Now, the chief malefactor was revealed, and Carter’s own well-being seemed trifling. His blissful future had unraveled again; the only companion he had left was a dog. How could he continue, automatous, with hollow routine while the only two women he’d ever truly loved were now pawns in an extinction scheme?

Quietly, he remarked, “This can’t go on.” Raising his voice, meeting his televised visitor’s eyes, then Emmett’s, he added, “Whatever we can do, wherever we have to go, we have to stop this.”

“Damn straight, Mr. Stanton.”

Emmett, thinking of his own wife and child, scowled and shrugged, then muttered, “Why’s it always gotta be we?”

 

Chapter 11

 

 

“How’s that breakfast burrito taste, asshole?” Special Agent Sharpe muttered, wishing to purchase one, or three, for himself, painfully aware that stepping any closer to the man he surveilled might blow his cover. At the edge of the parking lot, in a grey sweatsuit and sneakers, he ambled back and forth, from Juan Taco at a Time, the Mexican place, to the next-door ice cream parlor, Vanillagan’s Island, pretending to speak into the cellphone that he pressed to his ear.

 His partner, Special Agent Stevens, wearing a Padres jersey and jean shorts, waited in the passenger seat of their sedan. Parked beside Officer Duane Clementine’s lovingly restored 1949 Mercury Eight, he intermittently read pages of a novel he’d received in a white elephant gift exchange for Christmas: Toby Chalmers’ Fleshless Fingers, a spine-tingler that owed most of its plot points to Poltergeist and The Exorcist.

Peering through Juan Taco at a Time’s plate glass window, letting his eyes linger on the surveilled for but a few seconds, Sharpe beheld consternation in the flesh. Clementine shifted uneasily upon a seat of red plastic, his free hand tapping, with shattered rhythm, his tabletop’s faux woodgrain. Face enflamed, perspiring, he hardly seemed to taste his food. His unbrushed, greasy mane and handlebar mustache seemed to be greying more and more by the second. 

Duane Clementine had no idea how an FBI website electronic tip form had been filled out in his name, using his cellphone, he’d claimed. Somebody must have stolen his phone for a moment while he was distracted, or somehow hacked it. Had he discovered a corpse so gruesomely slaughtered, he’d have secured the scene and called his supervisor. He’d been on the force for damn near a decade and planned to retire after twenty years. He was a good man—well, as good as he could be. He had a wife and two daughters and was absolutely sickened by the unspeakable acts the young decedent had endured. 

On paid administrative leave while under investigation by internal affairs, Clementine had spent much time bouncing between bars and restaurants, alone. Lingering for long hours, he spoke to no fellow patrons and took no interest in what played on the wall-mounted televisions. He didn’t seem to exercise or possess any friends. 

Could Clementine himself be the killer? was the question that Sharpe and Stevens asked themselves so many times that they’d decided to tail the man unofficially, without the knowledge of their superiors. Doing the job of a Special Surveillance Group team as a duo—somewhat half-assedly, granted—they kept a trunk full of different outfits, to blend in with any crowd, or lack thereof. 

Certainly, the crime scene had been a bizarre one. The lack of clues as to the killer’s identity indicated an organized killing, but the fact that the decedent had been left where he’d died, with no effort to hide him, indicated a disorganized mind. Had Clementine worked with a partner? Was he transforming psychologically? Did he partake of hard drugs or possess a mental illness?

Sharpe’s cellphone chirped in his hand. Startled, he nearly dropped it. Don’t let that asshole Clementine notice, he thought, thumbing forth a connection. He answered the call by stating his own name. 

“Yeah, uh, hi, Special Agent Sharpe. This is Carter Stanton. You came to my house not too long ago and gave me your card. Glimpsed my wife’s unmentionables, too, now that I think about it. Remember?”

“My memory is beyond reproach, Mr. Stanton. Buy me a drink sometime and I’ll recite every line of dialogue from On the Waterfront, word for word. I’m kind of busy at the moment, though, so let’s keep this brief. Have you had an interaction with Martha? Is that why you’re calling?”

“I think that something…that she might have been involved in the death of my wife. My wife Elaina.”

“Elaina passed away? Please accept my condolences. Easy on the eyes for an old gal, if you don’t mind me saying so. You think she was murdered, though? Had that been the case, I’d surely have heard of it.”

“Traffic fatality. Elaina drove over a median strip…a terrible car wreck. That’s the picture that everyone painted for me, anyway. But when they examined her corpse, they found no signs of a stroke or a heart attack. She wasn’t suicidal; I’m sure of it.”

“Was she asleep at the wheel? It does happen.”

“At that hour, with it not even dark yet? Unlikely.”

“Okay, so Elaina died in an accident. Some kind of, what, head-on collision?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you think that somehow, some way, Martha was involved?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Okay, then perhaps you’ll explain yourself. Did you see, or even hear from, your ex-wife? Was somebody matching her description spotted at the scene? Please tell me that you have more than a funny feeling.” 

“There’s nothing funny whatsoever about my life lately. Listen, Sharpe, I’m hoping that you can put me in touch with one of the FBI’s paranormal investigators.”

“Paranormal? Like on The X-Files?”

“That’s right. I need an agent with weirdness expertise. Lots of it. Probably an exorcist, too, now that you mention it.”

Great, this guy’s mind is broken, thought Sharpe. I should suggest a visit to a psychiatrist and end this call asap. “Mr. Stanton,” he said, “there are no Mulders and Scullys in real life. Sure, the FBI has amassed some strange files throughout its existence. Civilians make all sorts of claims of insane phenomena, only a slight percentage of which are ever investigated. But we’ve no paranormal experts to refer you to. Sorry. As for an exorcist, I’ve no idea where you’d dig up one of those. Ask a priest maybe, if the exorcist profession even exists anymore. But, hey, you can at the very least explain yourself. Strange things have been happening, or seem to be?” 

“Uh, yeah. All sorts of strangeness. Tell me, do you believe in…ghosts?”

After exhaling emphatically, Sharpe said, “I neither believe nor disbelief in them. Don’t think of ’em at all, really. Unless you’re talking about the Holy Spirit. As a regular churchgoer, I’m obligated—scratch that, privileged—to believe in that.”

“Okay, well, what if I could prove the existence of ghosts to you? Your partner whatshisname, too. If I do that right off the bat, would you listen to what I have to say with an open mind?”

“Sir, I always strive to keep an open mind. But what’s the deal? I’m assuming that you aren’t planning to prove the existence of ghosts over the phone.”

“Of course not. Actually, I have a couple of friends that I’d like to introduce you to. Can you be at my house tomorrow…sometime around noon?”

Well, we’ve nothing better to do, Sharpe thought. Following this Clementine guy isn’t yielding anything interesting. “We’ll be there,” he answered. Terminating the call, he then added, “You fucking lunatic.”

 

Chapter 12

 

 

“Ugh.” Rolling over in bed at three minutes past 3 a.m., Carter encountered contours most familiar, unmistakable even in perfect darkness. The soft buttocks pressing into his groin, stirring forth a semi-erection, the scent of apple cider vinegar shampoo—a scalp-soothing wonder, she’d claimed—the only thing missing was the sound of soft respiration. 

Reflexively, as he’d done countless times prior, beginning early in their courtship, he threw his arm around his bedmate and lightly grasped her left breast. Gently grinding against her, he came into total consciousness. 

Elaina’s dead! his mind shrieked. Fumbling for the nightstand lamp, shuddering, he birthed illumination. Though he could discern an indentation in his wife’s pillow, and a bulge in the covers that conformed to her proportions, he couldn’t sight her. 

He whispered her name.

“Carter,” she answered. 

“I can’t see you. Why won’t you appear?” 

“I don’t want you to look at me. Not like this. Not now. But I couldn’t stay away either, not with Martha, and the entity*, so close.* She made me come here, knowing that it would hurt you. My actions aren’t wholly my own now. I’d have just as soon left you in peace, believing a lie, imagining me in some perfect heaven where we’d be reunited someday. Instead, this. I’m the pet of the monster that wears your first wife. All that’s left to me is misery. But, hey, how have you been?”

Somehow, words came to him. “Christ, Elaina, how do you think?”

“Drinking heavily?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

Falling into their old conversational patterns came easily for both of them. Carter wished that they could carry the small talk to sunrise, as they had many times, but urgency overwhelmed him. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve just reconnected with some of my son’s old friends. One of them is a ghost, like you. They want to help me catch or kill Martha. I know a couple of FBI agents, too. We’ll free you soon, if we’re lucky.”

“Oh, Carter,” she groaned. “Don’t you get it? The entity can drift out from Martha’s body, just like the rest of us incorporeals. Seen or unseen, we can operate within a block-radius of it. Wayne Jefferson, from two doors down, is dead. Martha’s in his house. The entity’s been observing you all this time.”

Suddenly, she shrieked, “She’s here in this room! She’s watching us now! I’m not in control of myself, Carter! Please, if you still love me, look away!”

But, of course, he couldn’t. Even when terrible laughter sounded and the room’s temperature plummeted, he held tight to his dead wife’s unseen contours, until they abandoned their invisibility. 

Elaina, coming into focus, was entirely nude. Every wrinkle and age spot that she’d tried to conceal with beauty products manifested; over the years, he’d kissed every one of them. Her well-maintained, seemingly timeless, breasts and ass remained pert; she’d always been so proud of them. Her legs, owing to laser hair removal, were stubble-free.

There she was, the love of his life recreated, translucent. But she’d only been delivered to Carter as a cruel reminder of what he’d lost. To underline that grim point, the porcelain-masked entity gifted her pet with decomposition. Elaina’s body bloated; her face discharged foamy blood. Her coloring went pale, then green, then purple, then black. Her swollen tongue and bulging eyes protruded from her face.

Elaina’s teeth came unfastened; she shed her fingernails and toenails. Just as her tissues began to liquidize, she faded from the scene. The arm that Carter had thrown around her fell to the bed. 

Carter moaned her name. A grim resolve seized him. I’ll flee into the night, he thought, escape the entity’s radius. I’ll call the police, the FBI, the armed forces, everyone. I’ll send ’em to Wayne Jefferson’s house and end this nightmare. 

Sadly, he was unable even to escape from his bedspread. Untethered shadows, riven, grew clawed hands to ensnare him. So numerous were they, so intractable were their vise fingers, that Carter could do naught but blink furiously, shouting, “Let me go, you evil cunt.”

Again, that terrible mirth sounded. “Oh, Carter,” the unseen presence said, “voice every demand and plea that your mind conjures and I’ll remain unswayed. Over the years, your suffering has brought me so much amusement…the looks on your face, the tastes of your sorrows as I ravaged your son and first wife. I watched you through Martha’s eyes in the asylum, relishing your guilt and soured passion. Her flesh yet responds to you, so I am loath to kill you right away.”

“Uh, is that so?” he replied, thinking, Keep it cool, Carter. You might just find a way out of this. “Can I ask what exactly are your intentions?”

“Oh, I believe I will stash you away for safekeeping. Later, a celebration will be held in your honor. I’ll invite your FBI friends and perhaps Douglas’ old schoolmates. Such games we shall enjoy. But for now, there are other matters to attend to.”

The shadows hefted Carter into the air and carried him through his house. Somewhere, Maggie was yapping, then howling her little head off. 

Into his backyard he was borne, with shadow fingers pinching his mouth shut, preventing him from hollering for neighborly assistance. 

Splash! Into his jacuzzi he went. Sputtering in the darkness, pressed down nearly to the waterline, he was barely able to keep his mouth and eyes unsubmerged as his king size bed, having followed him from the house, landed atop him. Next, from the kitchen, deposited onto the bed, came his refrigerator. Combined, they were too heavy for Carter to move. 

Hurling all the strength he could muster up against the steel bedframe, he budged it not one iota. His pool’s waterfall came to life, muffling his screams as they spanned the long hours. 

 

Chapter 13

 

 

Within the charged stillness that exists in the last morning moments pre-sunrise, a discordant element sounded: three iPhones’ emergency SOS sirens at top volume. Though none were particularly close to Emmett’s position, combined, they had him rolling away from his wife, gripping the sides of his skull, groaning, “Too early, dammit. Lemme sleep.”

But the electronic caterwauling continued, unabated. Celine was jolted awake. Her lips shaped the words, “What…what is it?”

“I dunno. That your cellphone?”

Climbing out of bed, she made her way to the closet and rummaged in her purse. As she withdrew her iPhone, her SOS siren, along with those in Graham’s bedroom and a certain kitchen drawer ceased. 

“There’s a boy on the screen!” she yelped. “Did my phone accidently FaceTime some rando kid?” 

Emmett leapt out from under the covers. Gripping Celine’s waist, he peered over her shoulder, to see Benjy’s usually smug face now warped with dire urgency.

“What is it, Benjy?” Emmett asked.

“You know this kid?” hissed Celine. “Who is he, some friend of Graham’s I’ve never met? You’re not a…” She left the last bit unspoken; still, Emmett grasped the implication. 

“There’s no time for explanations!” Benjy shouted through phone speakers. “They’re in your son’s room right now! The porcelain-masked entity’s ghosts! Get in there or you’ll lose him!”

“Ghosts!” wailed Celine. “What the hell are you saying? If this is some kind of early morning prank call, I’ll be sure to inform your parents! And the police! Isn’t that right, Emmett?”

But her husband was already sprinting, with no thoughts for his own safety. He loved his son more than he loved anyone, even Celine and himself. No way would he let Graham be stolen away without a fight. 

Not bothering to finger any light switch—Emmett knew every inch of his home as if it were his own flesh—he surged into his boy’s bedroom. Walls ever-vibrant in the daytime, postered-over with images of superheroes and sports stars, remained gloom-swallowed. The presence of Graham’s bed and desk could be felt rather than seen. 

Superimposed over that dark nullity were glowing, translucent figures. A baker’s dozen, they leaned over the space where Emmett knew Graham’s sleeping form would be. 

“Get away from him!” Emmett shouted. He then heard his boy sputtering, surfacing from sleep.

“Dad?” Graham asked, softly, before parting his eyelids. And then he was screaming, adrenaline-shocked to full consciousness. 

Had he been any younger, the boy would’ve dived beneath his covers and chanted, “There’s nobody there, there’s nobody there, there’s nobody there,” until that mantra emboldened him enough to sneak another peek at that which chilled the very blood in his veins. But Graham was nine now, and pragmatic enough to realize that his earlier self’s strategy against imaginary monsters would hardly spare him from an assortment of see-through mental patients, they whose glimmering eyes attested to one irrevocable actuality: death had been no kinder to their psyches than life had. Some wore pajamas, as if they’d died in the depths of slumber and only their dream selves remained. Some tried on a series of facial expressions, none of which seemed to fit right. 

A tattooed roughneck and his hairless accomplice twirled around to seize Emmett’s arms, preventing him from playing bodyguard, from throwing himself atop the now howling Graham and using his own body to shield the boy. Agonized, he could only observe the deranged dead as they hefted Graham up, whispering obscenities, and, indeed, tossed him through his own window. 

Glass shattered. Son and father shrieked as one, until landing shock drove the air from Graham’s lungs. The ghosts needed no window. They simply flowed through the wall in their exit. Having thrown on a robe, Celine stumbled into the room. 

Leaping through the glass-toothed window frame, cutting his bare feet on slivers upon landing, Emmett saw his son being loaded into a gray minivan. Its license plate read LUVDANK. He knew that he’d seen it before, somewhere. Elusive, it navigated the byways of his memory. And then the vehicle was speeding away, headlights off, before he could reach it.

Emmett sprinted into his house to retrieve his Impala keys. Celine latched onto his arm and demanded to go with him. 

Though he wore only sweatpants and boxers, Emmett felt no morning chill. They drove roads that seemed signless, nameless, two-dimensional, nothing but faded paint upon moldering canvas. They shouted their son’s name. They moaned it. They whimpered it. 

Eventually, they drove home. No neighbors stood on their lawn to spew hollow hope. No sea of red and blue lights flashed fit to blind them; there was only charged stillness. Ergo, Celine muttered that she’d better dial the police. 

But instead, moments later, she was rigid on their living room sofa, murmuring to the boy in her iPhone. Though tears streamed down her face, she kept her voice perfectly modulated. Only after Emmett cleared his throat did she address him.

“I’ve been talking to your…friend,” she said matter-of-factly. “He says that some monster from your childhood has stolen Graham away. The bitch commands ghosts and will soon make Graham one of them.”

Emmett crouched before her, in horrible parody of the night he’d proposed, and took her free hand. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

“Benjy says that I shouldn’t call the cops, that she’ll only kill Graham quicker if I do.”

Speaking from the phone’s speakers, Benjy clarified: “I wanted to tell you in the car, but you forgot to bring your cellies with you and don’t have a satellite radio. Dudes, I recognized that van’s license plate. I think I know where they took Graham. If the porcelain-masked entity wants to play around with him for a while, like she did with that Lemuel kid, we might have time to save him…but only if we hurry over there, like now. The second she hears a police siren, though, she’s sure to slit his throat. Or pull him apart, or bash his brains in, or…I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.”

Emmett gripped his skull, remembering the strewn corpse bits he’d seen. That memory segued to even more disturbing mental imagery: his own son enduring the same kind of torture, losing digits, then extremities, then entire limbs, coughing blood up for hours that subjective time stretched to eons. No open-casket funeral for my son, he thought. We’ll scoop what’s left of him into a Glad Bag and cart it to the crematorium.

He shook his head to blur such musings, wanting to laugh, sob, shriek, and projectile vomit all at once. He seemed to possess a dozen hearts, each of them beating fit to burst. Something surged in his stomach. The lights were too bright; the confines of his home were growing cramped. He was sweating enough that, in appearance, he might have just emerged from the shower, or stepped inside from a rainstorm. 

“Benjy,” he said.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Where. The. Fuck. Is. My. Son?”

“Listen, man, I saw that very same van parked in Carter Stanton’s neighborhood, on a driveway just a couple of houses down from Carter’s place.”

“Okay, then that’s where we’re going. Just let me grab a shirt and some shoes.”

“I’m going, too,” said Celine. 

“Honey, no. You could die.” 

“So could you, you dumb asshole. So could…our Graham.” She set off to change clothes, trailing emphatic words: “Don’t you dare leave without me.”

Moments later, she returned, her fastest attire switch in history. Emmett was waiting at the door, fully dressed, gripping the phone in which dwelt Benjy. 

“Let’s hit the road, fellas,” Celine said, grimly, through gritted teeth. “And on the way there, if you would be so very kind, perhaps one of you could explain to me just what the fuck’s going on here.”

Chapter 6

 

 

Since learning of his ex-wife’s missing person status, Carter had succumbed to lethargy. Some crucial particle, some essential element of his animating force, seemed to have slipped right on out of him, leaving behind a paper lantern man whose candle stub flame grew ever dimmer. The good cheer previously bestowed by his favorite meals and marriage bed remained distant. So too did his real estate investments, once so blandly exhilarating, resound with but an echo of their previous thunder. His sleep hours diminished; his daily cigarette intake swelled. He began losing weight, which he would have gladly celebrated in other circumstances. 

When Elaina suggested that they travel—“Anywhere you want, honey, for as long as you like”—Carter told her that he’d think about it, then did nothing of the sort. Showering in the morning, he’d wash his face and soap down his torso, then forget those actions and repeat them. Sometimes, absentmindedly, he’d apply shampoo to his bald scalp. 

The careful life that he’d built for himself, that he’d clung to in the wake of his son’s murder so as to keep suicidal thoughts distant, was in danger of drifting away. Memories of Martha’s laughter in happier times, warped indecent, returned to him in quiet instances. A cronish cackle it had become, resounding with everything that had soured in their relationship.  

*          *          *

Now, as he sat alone at his kitchen island—a powered-on laptop before him, a glass of lemonade uplifted, half-tilted toward his mouth, forgotten—attempting to study Pembroke Pines real estate listings, he was overcome by the notion that a pair of cold eyes observed him. Gusts of putrescent breath seemingly battered his back neck. Skeletal fingers might’ve been hovering millimeters away from his flesh. 

Elaina was off shopping; Carter was well aware of that. She’d invited him along, then left in a huff when he’d claimed to be too tired. In a couple of hours, she’d return with new clothes and groceries. She’d make preparations for dinner, and they’d pretend that everything was A-OK. Post-dining, they’d snuggle on the couch and watch some TV show that Carter pretended to enjoy, though he’d rather be watching an action flick. During the commercials, she’d nibble on his earlobe and he’d reflexively squeeze her thigh, decidedly unaroused. He had a bottle of Viagra stashed away; perhaps he’d swallow a tablet. Perhaps he’d swallow down the entire bottle just to see what happened. 

His eyes returned to the computer screen. There was a townhouse for sale, its price $240,000. Idly, Carter noted, Flooring, cabinetry, and fixtures look good, but I hate that interior paint job. What kind of person wants orange walls, anyway? There are some cracks in the exterior stucco that need repairing. The fence looks nice, though. When was this place built? 1997.

Having invested in the area before, Carter knew a good contractor he could contact, who’d walk through the house, keen-eyed, on the lookout for any other advisable repairs. He also knew that by paying all-cash, he could likely knock the residence’s asking price down a bit. With a couple of emails, he could get the ball rolling. Still he hesitated. God, what’s wrong with me? he wondered. 

Then came the deranged mirth he’d been imagining of late: the cackling of the woman he’d promised to love and cherish until death, decades prior. This time, however, it seemed to have escaped from his skull. Resounding throughout his entire home—doubling, tripling, echoing—it made Carter grit his teeth, close his eyes, and put his hands to his ears. Martha’s here, he thought madly. There can be not one doubt of it. When he shrieked her name at the top of his lungs, the overwhelming sonance ceased. 

He leapt to his feet. Rushing from room to room, peeking behind and beneath furniture, shifting closet-stockpiled clothing, peering out of windows, he searched for tangible evidence that something was amiss. Only when he returned to the kitchen did he sight incongruousness. A fresh browser window was open; Carter didn’t like what he found there.

“FBI Locates Murdered Child’s Body” read the XBC News article’s title. Beneath a byline listing Renaldo Gutiérrez as its writer, sandwiched between clickbait and targeted advertising, the report read: 

 

An on-the-market home in Oceanside, California played host to more than realtors and prospective buyers yesterday afternoon. 

 

Indeed, following up on a tip from an anonymous source, the FBI’s Evidence Response Team Unit and Operational Projects Unit swarmed into the residence to document a crime scene and collect evidence. 

 

Though reporters were kept at bay behind yellow DO NOT CROSS tape, and thus can provide no description of the crime scene at this time, the FBI released a statement this morning in which they revealed that the remains discovered in the home are believed to be those of missing third-grader, Lemuel Forbush. Postmortem identification will be used to confirm or refute this. 

 

Apparently, the condition of the body leaves no doubt as to its cause of death: violent murder. Further details are scarce at the moment, but we at XBC News will provide you with any updates we receive. 

 

“Jesus,” Carter groaned, prodding the laptop with his fingertips to put a little more distance between himself and it. My lemonade could use a little vodka, he decided. No, a lot. Pushing himself up from his chair, he felt his legs give out beneath him. Unto his rump he went, clipping the edge of his chair in his trajectory, knocking it over so that it clattered down alongside him, onto the tile flooring.

Supernovas filled his vision. His tongue was bleeding; he’d bit into it. He braced his arms to push himself to standing, then thought better of it. Instead, he reclined, and noticed that the cabinets and ceiling above his stove were quite greasy. I’ll have to find myself a spray bottle, he thought, and fill it with water and vinegar. After making with the spritzing, I’ll wipe everything down with a rag and celebrate with a stiff drink. 

 

Chapter 7

 

 

Behind the wheel of her phytonic blue BMW, less an individual organism than a component of a woman-machine amalgam, Elaina Stanton, lost in velocity, sought the coast, cruising down Oceanside Blvd. A sunset had blossomed, volcanic lava underlying bruised hues. She wished to see it backlighting the dark mounds and frilly froth of the evening’s onrushing surf. Bags of freshly-purchased clothing and groceries occupied the back seats, hardly a concern to her fickle disposition.   

Headlights struck her windshield and smeared into diagonal streaks. Palm trees occupied the periphery—awkward, silent giants. Spilling from her car’s speakers, a pop song she’d sung along to at least three thousand times attained a new significance, linking her to her child self and all of her fantasy selves. She felt as if she exuded electricity; her dazed grin grew all the wider. 

Her hunger and aches had faded, as had all concerns for her husband’s dispirited state. If Carter insisted on being a stick-in-the-mud, that was his cross to bear, not Elaina’s. She’d seek adventures without him, travel and socialize with others until he recovered his joie de vivre. Perhaps she’d even attain an extramarital lover, before time unraveled what remained of her good looks. 

Suddenly, without warning, she was shivering, erupting in goosebumps, her off-the-shoulder ponte dress next to useless against what seemed an arctic wind. Every window was rolled up. She’d left the air conditioning system off, yet from its vents arrived a glacial sensation. 

Dimly, she noted passed restaurants: IHOP, Jack in the Box, Cafe de Thai and Sushi, Enzo’s BBQ Ale House and Wienerschnitzel. “Maybe I’ll pick something up for dinner after all,” she remarked, though she preferred her home cooking. 

She saw bus stop bench-seated strangers, evening joggers, dog walkers, skaters and vagrants. She beheld the faces of her fellow drivers—some thin-lipped, some singing, some blathering into their cellphones. Not one felt the touch of her scrutiny; nobody turned to regard her. Feeling nearly voyeuristic, Elaina returned her attention to the road. 

Do I even want to see the beach still? she wondered. The sky’s darkening by the moment. I mean, will I get there in time? Hey, what the hell’s going on here? Her radio’s tune cut off mid-lyric, on its own, though Elaina hardly noticed. 

What she’d taken for a rapidly darkening firmament revealed itself to be a phenomenon far stranger. For it wasn’t just chill that arrived from her AC vents. Shadow tendrils surged forth, too—undulating, expanding. They painted her legs and torso, obscuring flesh and clothing. They flowed upon the rear seats, swallowing her bagged purchases, and then onto the passenger seat. Ascending from there, they traveled across the headliner and moonroof. The rear windshield blackened over, as did every window on the vehicle’s passenger side and driver’s side.

Elaina could no longer view her arms, nor the steering wheel that her hands gripped. Driving at nearly fifty miles per hour, she watched the visible road ahead of her shrink, as darkness occluded the windshield. So quickly did it happen, she hardly even had time to consider slowing down. Her car’s headlights were no help whatsoever, as everything viewable was stolen from her sight. 

Okay, don’t panic, Elaina, she thought to herself, spitting pragmatism into the face of the inexplicable. I’ll hit this car’s hazard lights and slow to a stop. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. If I’m lucky, I won’t get rear-ended or crash into whosoever’s in front of me, or roll into an intersection and get side-impacted. God, what if I hit a crosswalk-crossing pedestrian? I’ll need a lifetime of therapy. No, don’t think of that, Elaina. Stay somewhat positive.

Just as she began to apply her foot to the brake pedal, just as her hand fumbled to birth hazard lighting, just as her jackhammering heartbeat reached a crescendo and she moved her mouth to deliver words of prayer that wouldn’t come, a whispering from the car’s rear caught her attention. So low were the words that their language was a mystery. The last thing she desired was to turn toward them. 

Surely, the peril of a blackout collision was urgent enough. Discovery of a vehicular intruder could wait until she was parked somewhere, safer. Undoubtedly, whosoever the whisperer was—if, indeed, the murmuring was arriving from anywhere other than Elaina’s panic-stricken psyche—they possessed enough of a sense of self-preservation to wait until their own life wasn’t endangered before attacking, if such was even their intention. 

There was no reason to delay her slow braking, for her treacherous torso to shift rightward, for her neck to swivel her head so that she might appraise that which lurked behind her. But thought, on occasion, must play catch up to reflex, and by the time that Elaina registered exactly what it was she was doing, she’d already sighted a trio of translucent terrors. 

Outside her car, horns were honking, a sane planet’s ersatz parting words. They arrived to Elaina’s ears as if through blown out speakers, distorted and fading, hardly a concern.

Visible though see-through, as if painted atop the blackness that had swallowed all else, Elaina’s three spectral passengers continued to whisper, their voices amalgamating subaudibly. A nude, lesion-riddled female fingered her own empty eye socket. Beside her, a bland, middle-aged fellow dressed in a tweed jacket and slacks refused to meet Elaina’s gaze, focusing instead on his hands, which he wrung in his lap. Occupying the third seat, an infinitely glum boy aged perhaps eight or nine—dressed in flannel pajamas, with bedhead lending him the appearance of one only just awakened—spilled silent supplication from his eyes, as if Elaina might possess a fulcrum he could use to escape from his suffering.

None of the three moved to assault her, or appeared to possess such an intention, so Elaina swiveled herself back to facing forward. Only a few seconds had elapsed since she’d taken her mind off her braking. Hopefully her hazard lights were already rerouting other vehicles around her. 

Increasing her foot pressure on the brake pedal, she thought of Carter. Insanity had stolen away his first wife; a bullet had taken his son. I’ll see him again, she vowed. I can’t leave him loveless. Only then did she notice a third hand on the steering wheel: a man’s left hand, translucent, trailing to the Day-Glo orange arm of a spectral sweatshirt, from the top of which a clench-toothed skeleton mask protruded. Indeed, a newcomer had materialized in the passenger seat from thin air.

Unlike the backseat ghosts, his speech arrived with clear enunciation, “Oh, how I’ve missed murder,” the costumed fellow declared, jerking the steering wheel leftward.

Thump, thump. Up onto a median strip Elaina’s car traveled. Thump, thump. Into a lane of opposing traffic it then went. Horns honked and brakes screeched. A sinking feeling overcame Elaina’s stomach. She had just enough time to whisper Carter’s name before impact. 

*          *          *

Elaina’s Beemer kissed the pavement in front of a Nissan Altima SR, a 2020 model in sunset drift chromaflair. That vehicle’s driver, one Harold Gershwin, instinctively tossed up his hands, as if they might protect him, and stomped on his brake pedal with all the force he could muster.

Sadly, mere milliseconds elapsed before a head-on collision crumpled both vehicles’ front ends, interlocking them in savage, shrieking intimacy. The X5’s back tires briefly left the road. The Altima’s trunk popped wide open. 

Both front bumpers were sheared away; the windshields above them sprouted spiderweb cracks. Elaina’s groceries went flying, painting her car’s interior with egg yolks, apple chunks, milk, butter and cream cheese. Harold’s air conditioning system hissed as freon escaped it.

Two rear-end collisions followed: a Ford Ranger striking the Altima, and a Kia Sedona striking that. Fortunately for those vehicles’ drivers, they’d left enough space ahead of them for proper deceleration, and sustained damage only to their autos. 

Harold Gershwin’s airbag spared him from the Grim Reaper, though the force with which it deployed broke his wrists and sprained all but two of his fingers. So too was his face severely contused around a gruesome nasal fracture. A concussion enfolded him within brief oblivion.

Elaina proved far less lucky, as her own airbag, inexplicably, remained inert in the wreck. Her forehead struck her steering wheel so hard that she sustained a depressed skull fracture: a concavity pointed brainward. Her spleen, kidneys, and liver suffered impact injuries as well.

Still, even those wounds, along with the handful of broken bones that Elaina suffered, were survivable, if not for one additional factor. As her car’s interior squashed inward—bulging convex, unrelenting—it exerted so much pressure against Elaina’s stomach that her abdominal aorta ruptured. A quick fatality.

Soon arrived firetrucks, squad cars and ambulances, an implacable procession, assaulting the night with strident sirens and lights. Stern men and women leapt from those vehicles to seize control of the scene—diverting traffic, taking statements, transporting the unconscious Harold and Elaina’s corpse elsewhere. 

*          *          *

No longer confined to flesh and bone, Elaina turned away from the chaos. Lifting a palm to her eyes, she viewed a starfield through it. “I’m dead,” she remarked, only half-believing it. “My body’s behind me, mangled, uninhabitable.” 

She began to ascend; the afterlife called her. “Goodbye, Carter,” she whispered, as a spectral tear slid down her cheek and evanesced. 

She’d escaped the frailty of advanced age and the fear of senile dementia. Perhaps I’ll reconnect with lost loved ones, she thought. Won’t that be wonderful. Letting go of life, reaching closure, wasn’t as difficult as she’d suspected. Somehow, she was even optimistic.

She was four feet off the ground now, levitating like a street magician, yet rising. “Goodbye, Earth,” she murmured. “I wish that I’d seen more of you.” Her eyes targeted deepest space; she found herself grinning.

That broad smile soon reversed, as Elaina’s ascent was arrested.

“Where do you think you’re going?” hissed a madwoman. “Our mistress demands that you join her flock.”

The nude, one-eyed blonde grasped Elaina’s right ankle; the orange-costumed killer held her right one. Together, they tugged her back down to terra firma. It seemed that Elaina was to persist like an unwanted memory. 

The man in the tweed jacket and the pajama-wearing boy seized her elbows. Defeated, surrounded, Elaina slumped her shoulders. 

Together—invisible to the living for the moment, in accordance with their owner’s wishes—the spectral quintet shuffled off of Oceanside Boulevard, their destination a nearby Big Lots parking space, where a vehicle awaited with its driver’s side door open. A grey Toyota Sienna, the minivan was recognizable by its LUVDANK vanity license plate and the decal on its rear windshield that read Bad Bitches Only. Its owner, in fact, lived two houses down from Elaina. Wayne Jefferson was his name. 

A goateed forty-something who dressed in jean shorts and a wifebeater year-round, he lived with only a pair of pit bulls for companions and cultivated marijuana in his backyard, which could be scented on the wind when in bloom. Slow-witted, though friendly, he’d once showed up on Carter and Elaina’s doorstep with a gift: a quarter ounce of a strain known as Alpine Frost. Non-indulgers when it came to cannabis, the Stantons had stored the weed in their freezer for a month before tossing it. Still, they didn’t fault the man for his presumption, and never failed to wave to Wayne when they saw him walking his dogs or mowing his front lawn. Visitors arrived to his house often, rarely staying for long.

Why bring me to this minivan? Elaina wondered. Is Wayne Jefferson dead, too? Some kind of ghostly chauffeur?

Later, she would learn that, indeed, Wayne had been slaughtered. Disjointed then beheaded alongside his treasured canines, he’d rot, undiscovered, in his living room until a pair of trespassers hopped his back fence a few weeks later—planning to steal the man’s marijuana plants—and hesitated on his back patio long enough to catch sight, through Wayne’s sliding glass door, of flyblown remains so ghastly that the would-be robbers fled, shrieking. Cops would be summoned, and then the FBI. Eventually, post-examinations, what was left of the man and his pets would be buried.

But those events were yet to come, and the Sienna’s driver turned out to be someone else entirely. Flesh so pale that it seemed exsanguinated, physique so thin that skeletal configurations were apparent, mouth crusted over, hospital gown stained and soiled, a dark mane so lengthy that she sat upon it—Elaina had never met the woman, but she knew her from description.

“Martha Drexel,” she gasped, as two sunken eyes found her. 

“A being garbed in her flesh, organs and bones, if you would be more truthful,” was the reply that arrived through seemingly unmoving lips, borne by a whisper that drowned out all background noise. “I locked Martha’s spirit away years ago, hollowed her body out. Now, it houses my collection of souls and myself.”

“I…don’t understand.”

“You shall in a twinkling.” Blood streamed from Martha’s fissured lips as their scabs shattered afresh, as her mouth opened far wider than seemed possible. 

Staring into the black hole that existed at the center of that ghastly maw, Elaina realized just how malleable her spectral form truly was, as her extremities dissolved into tendrils of mist, shaded an unsettling green hue. The dissolution reached Elaina’s arms and legs, and then traveled up her torso. So too did her neck and head become drifting filaments. 

The phenomenon seized her four escorts. Dissolving, then amalgamating with what had become of Elaina, they were inhaled, in toto, right along with her.

 

Chapter 8

 

 

Having wiped the grease from the kitchen cabinets and ceiling, then poured himself a stiff drink—a hot toddy with three times the whiskey that the recipe called for—Carter now loafed in his living room, viewing Curb Your Enthusiasm. 

He’d attempted to call his wife twice, and gotten voicemail both times. Where the hell can she be? he wondered. Shopping still? Most nights, she’d be preparing dinner already. Should I grill up a quick burger? That actually sounds pretty tasty. Maybe I’ll fry up some bacon, too, build a real artery-clogger. Deeply, he glugged, relishing the Bushmills’ warmth as it unfurled.

On the TV screen, Larry David’s ex-wife, Cheryl, was seated on his lap, pretending to be a ventriloquist’s dummy as they performed for their friends. Just as the pair’s repartee began to target Ted Danson, it was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Goddamn it,” groaned Carter, tempted to ignore it. Unplanned visitors rarely charmed him, and he was comfortable as he was. But the fist strikes were so authoritative, he was helpless to do anything but pause the program and hurl himself to his feet.

On the doorstep, two officers awaited, their blue uniforms spick and span, their faces carefully composed—solemnly earnest, nearly sympathetic. Male and female, a pair of mid-thirties Caucasians with close-cropped hair, they introduced themselves with names that Carter immediately forgot. Their chest-affixed badges seemed to spew acute radiance, boring into Carter’s cerebrum, discomforting. The urge to flee, to be anywhere else, overwhelmed him. “Uh, can I…help you with something, officers?” he asked.

Answering his question with a question of her own, the female said, “Is this the residence of Elaina Stanton?” 

“It is.” How bad is it? Carter wondered. Please let her be alive. His forehead and palms sprouted sweat sheens. He felt as if he might faint. “I’m her husband. Can you tell me what happened?”

“We should probably come inside,” said the male cop.  

Weighing that response’s tone and intent, Carter gained certainty. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” he asked with little inflection, like an automaton. 

Realizing that that an invitation inside, away from the night chill and all prying eyes, wasn’t forthcoming, the female officer took his hand, met his gaze, and said, “We’re sorry, Mr. Stanton, but we have some bad news. Your wife was involved in a traffic accident. She died at the scene.”

“Oh,” was all that Carter could say. 

Of course, the officers kept talking, alternating without missing a beat, as if they’d performed their act countless times before, for all manner of people. Perhaps they had. They asked Carter if he had any questions and, after he articulated none, told him where Elaina’s body was. They offered to call Carter’s family and/or friends, and wait with him until they arrived. They said many things, but their voices were fading. 

This is just like when Douglas was murdered, Carter thought. Looks like I’ve some steps to retrace. Let’s see, I’ll be visiting a medical examiner’s office to speak with a grief counselor. She’ll take me into the identification room and hand me a facedown clipboard. When I turn it over, there’ll be a photo of Elaina’s face, pale and lifeless. She’ll be lying on a blue sheet. Not sleeping. Not now. 

Then what? I’ll have to contact a funeral director. Her corpse needs to be moved and stored, after all. Plus all of that death certificate business. Burial or cremation? Burial, of course. I’ll have to purchase a Timeless Knolls Memorial Park plot for her, as close to Douglas’ grave as possible. I’ll have to pick out a good coffin. Funeral, memorial, or graveside service? Funeral, just like Douglas had. Open casket or closed? Open always seems so morbid. What else? Death notice, obituary, personally informing family and friends. Hearse, funeral speakers, writing a eulogy, pallbearers, readings, music…so many little details.

 

Chapter 9

 

 

At his usual late-night post, weary-eyed, Emmett observed the Ground Flights parking lot. Ignoring clouds of secondhand tobacco exhaled by strippers on their smoke breaks, intermittently, he’d made small talk with lingering customers so that the ladies didn’t have to, positioning himself between those fellows and the curves they so coveted. He’d also played errand boy a few times, fetching Red Bulls and drive-through Mexican food for the talent. It was far better that way. Left to their own devices, they’d disappear for hours.

Occasionally, Emmett wondered if he’d ever gain true ambition. One can’t be a bouncer forever, he knew. His industry wasn’t known for low turnover. As his wife wouldn’t allow him to linger inside the establishment for more than a moment—knowing that his eyes would inevitably target exposed breasts, vulvas and asses—landing a better position at Ground Flights was out of the question. 

A cracker box of a building, its exterior color scheme half-cream, half-purple, Ground Flights exhibited a gaudy neon sign over its entranceway, which depicted a voluptuous giantess riding a jumbo jet sidesaddle. As his latest night shift drew to a close, Emmett was gifted with the gratifying sight of the last of the dawdling customers filing out beneath it, followed, a few minutes later, by the strippers—all of whom had changed back into their civilian attire of sweatshirts and yoga pants. One, a half-Asian, half-Caucasian who went by the stage name Fizzy, hopped onto Emmett’s back, expertly wrapping her lithe legs around him. “Goodbye, sexy,” she whispered, before licking the back of Emmett’s ear. Regaining terra firma, she then skipped away, giggling. 

Thank God Celine didn’t see that, thought Emmett. She’d chop off my balls and stomp them to paste for good measure. Still, he couldn’t help but admire Fizzy’s toned ass as it exited his sightline. 

Next departed the DJ, the door hostess, the waitresses, and the bartenders. None paid Emmett any mind as they made their way to their vehicles; happily, he returned the favor. 

Last but not least, after locking the place up good and tight, came the manager. Mr. Soul Patch, thought Emmett, as the guy squeezed his shoulder in passing. Saul Pletsch was his name and, indeed, he sported a telltale tuft of facial hair below his lower lip—the only hair on his head, in fact, as the man’s trichotillomania had compelled him to pluck every eyebrow and eyelash from his face. 

“Great job, as always,” Saul said while walking, not bothering to turn his head.

“Uh, thanks, Soul…I mean Saul…I mean Mr. Pletsch.” God, I sound like an idiot, thought Emmett, but the manager hardly seemed to notice. Crossing the parking lot, he hummed off-key. His Jaguar XE roared into the night moments later.  

Finally, I can get some shuteye, Emmett thought, striding toward his own vehicle. Or maybe wake Celine up for a quickie, and then sleep all the more deeply. Yeah, that sounds fantastic. She’ll probably make me take a shower first, though. 

Into his Chevy he climbed. Soon, its engine awakened. The CD he’d been playing earlier—John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme—continued where he’d left off, a few minutes into “Resolution.” Luxuriating in its inspired, off-center salmagundi of notes—saxophone, piano, and drums engaged in friendly competition, each seeking to steal his attention from the others—Emmett rolled his head about, loosely, as he pulled onto El Camino Real. He had nearly the entire road to himself, and felt like rolling down his windows and blasting the music at top volume. Hypothetical celestial observers would snap their fingers and nod. Perhaps Emmett would howl like a werewolf, just for the fun of it. 

Fate denied him that pleasure, however, for within his glovebox a hollering sounded, Emmett’s name arriving as stridently as his iPhone’s speakers could manage. Reluctantly, he silenced John Coltrane and retrieved the device.

“Benjy,” he groaned. “What the fuck is it now? It’s late and I’m already half-asleep.” With no desire to see his dead friend on the screen, he kept his eyes on the road.

“Sleep…I barely remember it. Have any good dreams lately? They’re the only part of your life I can’t see. Have you, I don’t know, flown? Showed up to a sporting event in your underpants? Or maybe boned a celebrity or two? Don’t think I haven’t noticed your morning wood.”

“Ugh, man, that’s just…wrong. I thought we talked about boundaries. Didn’t you say you wouldn’t spy on me during private moments anymore?”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“Sure you did. Seriously, I’m creeped the hell out. Respect my boundaries, Benjy. Being dead is no excuse for peeping on my genitals; you know that. Just because I’ve got the biggest johnson in all of SoCal doesn’t mean I’m not modest.”

“Oh…wow. I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

“Then why don’t you cut to the chase?”

 “The chase, the chase. Oh, that’s right, I did have something to tell you. Something important.”

“Which is?”

“Elaina’s dead.”

“Who?”

“Elaina Stanton, man. You know, Carter Stanton’s second wife. She died in a car wreck. Crossed the median strip on Oceanside Blvd. Head-on collision.”

“Yeah…well, elderly people drive on the wrong side of the street from time to time. I’ve seen it myself. Fuckin’ dangerous.” 

“Really? That’s all you think this is? Some fuzz-brained old Gertrude forgetting what she’s doing? Carter Stanton’s ex-wife disappears from an asylum—and is still missing, by the way—and now his current wife dies, and it’s no big deal to you? Martha was touched by the porcelain-masked entity, driven mad by the bitch, and now there’re all these suspicious murders circling around her.”

“Maybe, maybe not. We don’t know that Martha’s in Oceanside. Even if she did have something to do with all those Milford Asylum murders, there’s nothing but our own suspicions connecting her to the death of Lemuel Forbush. The same goes for those other recent Oceanside killings…Bexley Adams and that Milligan guy. People die violently all the time, here and everywhere else. Spectral influences can’t be responsible for all of them.”

“Emmett, man, come on. You know exactly what’s going on here. You just don’t wanna get involved, not when it’s your life on the line.”

“Well, yeah, no shit, Benjy. I’m a father and a husband, not John fuckin’ Constantine. Why don’t you hop on the web, see if this city’s got any exorcists? Why don’t you…you…shit, I don’t know.”

Benjy allowed the silence to linger, and then asked, “Are you finished?”

“Maybe.”

“And you know what we have to do, right?”

“Do? I’m gonna go get some shut-eye, maybe even eight hours’ worth.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

Emmett sighed, then answered, “You want us to visit Carter Stanton, as if that’ll actually do some good.”

“Correctamundo. If Douglas’ dad is in danger, we owe it to our old buddy to help him. If the situation was reversed, and Douglas was still alive, he’d do the same for us.”

“Would he? I’m not so sure.”

Chapter 5

 

 

Though a few weeks went by, Emmett received no further contact from his ghostly childhood companion, Benjy—neither updates on Martha Drexel’s whereabouts nor further appeals for heroism. His son, too, was troubled by no chubby, bespectacled face on his cellphone. Life returned to normality, and Emmett was grateful.

His working nights were spent in front of a strip club, watching dancers and patrons arriving and departing, some with downcast, shameful expressions, others shining with chemicals and sensuality. Rarely did a customer step out of line, and those who did were generally sent on their way with a baritone suggestion—no police involvement necessary. 

In his time at Ground Flights, Emmett had only resorted to violence twice, both times in the face of drunken belligerence. One fellow pulled a knife on him; the other slapped a dancer for not revealing her phone number. Throwing punches as if his targets existed six inches behind those men’s skulls, and their faces just so happened to be in the way, Emmett had concussed them and been paid bonuses for his efforts. 

Celine hadn’t once mentioned Benjy, so it was safe to assume that she’d yet to learn of him—a somewhat surprising development, as Graham wasn’t particularly good at keeping secrets. Instead, as per usual, his wife discussed dentist’s office clients as if they might actually matter to Emmett. One was dating a social media celebrity, apparently, while another had an uncle who’d just committed suicide. One had lost two teeth to domestic violence, though she claimed otherwise. “Fell into a doorknob, as if!” Another was such a cokehead, he’d grinded his teeth down to nubbins and chewed through his inner lips. He’d been suggested a night guard months prior, and responded, “Fuck that dweeb shit.” There was so much gossip to contend with, day after day, that Emmett wished that he knew how to meditate, so as to flush it from his mind.

Then came the day when Graham returned home from Campanula Elementary School with a story to spew. “There’s an actual witch here in Oceanside!” he exclaimed, fidgeting in excitement. “Margie Goldwyn saw her! Margie’s such a goody-goody, she’d never lie about that.”

Sweeping his son up into his arms, Emmett carried him into the living room. Depositing the boy onto the blue velvet sofa therein, claiming a seat just beside him, he rested a palm on Graham’s shoulder, met his eyes, and said, “Calm down, little man. Take some deep breaths and focus. How much candy and soda did you ingest today, anyway? Your skeleton seems liable to burst outta your skin.”

 “You’re not listening,” the boy whined. “I only had a Snickers bar and a Coke. But, like, haven’t you ever heard about missing kids? The ones on the news? What if witches took ’em?”

“You know that I don’t watch the news, or even read Internet articles.”

“Yeah, but someone must’ve said something to you about them. Parents have been on TV before, begging for their kids to come back, if they’ve run away, or for their kidnappers to let them go, if they’ve been…abducted. Some people think they were raped and murdered.”

“Graham! Watch your language, boy. You’re only nine years old, for cryin’ out loud…too young for sex education even. I mean, seriously, how the hell do you know what rape is?”

“Jeez, Dad, everyone knows what rape is. It’s when a guy takes his clothes off and pins someone to the ground, to scare them or something. I’m not an idiot.” 

“Huh, well, I guess not. So what’s with all the witch talk?”

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you. Margie Goldwyn said she had a nightmare last night and couldn’t fall back to sleep. She was in bed, all sweaty and shivery, around midnight, wanting to sneak into her parents’ bed but knowing that she was too old to, when she had a feeling that somethin’ was happening outside. So she peeked out her window and saw Lemuel Forbush, this kid from our school, walking alone, like he was sleepwalkin’. He went right on up to the doorstep of the house across the street from Margie’s and curled up there, like a cat. She said he was like that for an hour, maybe more, and then, all of a sudden, the house’s front door opened and this pale, scrawny witch arm grabbed Lemuel and dragged him inside. The door shut and that was that. 

“Nobody is supposed to be living at that house right now, Margie said. It’s for sale. That’s why Margie thought she was having another nightmare, and so she went back to bed. But then Lemuel didn’t come to school today, and his friends told everybody that he disappeared from his house in the middle of the night. His parents called their parents and the police, and nobody knew anything. Margie called 911 from school and the cops promised to check the house out, but she said that they sounded like they didn’t believe her. Adults never believe kids. It’s not fair.”

Naturally, Emmett was taken aback by his son’s statement. Disappearing children are a disquieting matter, and the fact that a boy from Graham’s elementary school had vanished made it all the worse. Benjy’s ghost had warned him that Martha Drexel was on the loose; perhaps she was a child-abducting “witch.” If Emmett continued to sit on his hands, would his son be next?

He thought about it for a while. Graham jittered in place on the sofa beside him. At last, Emmett voiced a pronouncement: “Boy, go play in your room for a while.” 

Now Graham was pouting. “What did I do this time? I told you the truth. I swear I did!” 

“You’re not being punished. As a matter of fact, I’ve decided to check up on your story…but for that, I need a little privacy.”

“Really? You believe me?”

“At the moment, I don’t believe or disbelieve you. What I’m doing is keeping an open mind, as you should in situations like this. I’m glad that you brought this to my attention, though. You should never be afraid to tell me anything.”

Beaming with pride, Graham leapt to his feet. Humming a vaguely familiar tune, he loped away to his bedroom. Waiting until he heard a slammed door, Emmett sighed and pushed himself up from the sofa. 

“Alright, let’s do this,” he muttered, already more exhausted than he’d been in years. Wishing for any excuse, any grounds whatsoever, to avoid doing exactly that which he now knew must be done, he trudged from the living room to the hallway, and from there to the spare room. 

Having set not one foot in the place since the television was installed, Emmett had forgotten what it looked like, and felt almost as if he was trespassing in a foreign land. Celine, as with the rest of the house, had selected its furnishings. A wrap-around sectional and leather ottomans sat atop an abstract swirl area rug. Facing them was a Samsung flat-screen—1080p, not the 4K behemoth that Graham had been clamoring for—nestled within white-oak cabinetry that also contained a Nintendo Switch, video games, a Blu-ray player, and a vast selection of superhero and romance flicks. Modern art prints occupied the other walls—colorful shapes that held little appeal for Emmett. The recessed lighting was off, but enough sunlight slipped through the blinds to navigate by. 

He turned the television on, then claimed a spot on the sectional. Dead center, he thought, how appropriate. He didn’t bother searching for a remote control.

Presumably, his wife has been the last one in the room, for the channel that met his tired eyes was none other than HGTV. A well-tanned blonde fellow with a light lisp, dressed in slacks and a pink pastel shirt, and his even blonder wife, wearing capri pants, a green blouse, and much costume jewelry, were house shopping. They had a set budget and dreams of starting a large family, and Emmett couldn’t have cared less. 

“Hey, uh, Benjy,” he said, “I know you’re here, watching me. Haunting me. Well, I’m finally ready to talk. It’s my boy, Graham. There’s a chance he could be in danger, and I’ve gotta do something about that, if I can. Manifest on the screen already.”

From the television’s speakers came, “Well, since you asked.”

Superimposing themselves over, then obscuring, the house hunting couple, a dead child’s features again became evident. Benjy Rothstein was grinning, enjoying Emmett’s acquiescence. He’d missed their interactions; silently haunting was a lonely business. Unable to grow up along with Emmett, he’d retained much of his grade school puerility. 

“There you are, pale as fresh snowfall. I suppose that you heard my son’s story?”

“Oh, you mean the child-snatching witch tale? Yeah, I might have been listening.”

“So…what do you think?”

“You know what I think. I warned you about crazy old Martha Drexel. You think it’s a coincidence that she escaped from the mental house and now a kid’s missing?”

“Could be, yeah. At any rate, I thought we could team up, investigate the house that Graham was talking about. Maybe we’ll find something we can share with the cops…anonymously, of course.”

“Oh, of course. No need for you to be branded a kid snatcher.”

“Exactly. Hey, that TV’s connected to the Internet, isn’t it? Are you any good at finding property records?”

“I’m a ghost with nothing but time on his hands. I can find anything.”

“Well then, why don’t you get us Margie Goldwyn’s address? I’m sure you can find out her parents’ names on social media, or something.”

“Sure thing, buddy. No problemo at all. Just give me a few minutes.”

*          *          *

“So this is the place, huh?” Emmett muttered, studying the dark silhouette of a two-story residence, carefully parked to avoid streetlights and porch lights. 

He’d purchased an iPhone eleven hours prior—keeping that info from his wife and son for the nonce—just before starting his bouncer shift, which ended at 1:30 a.m. Benjy’s voice gushed from its speaker: “Have I ever steered you wrong? The Goldwyns live right across the street and this place is untenanted. If your son’s story is true, this is where Lemuel was snatched. Look, there’s a FOR SALE sign and everything.”

“Shit, yeah, okay. Wait, I just thought of something. Can’t you drift on over there and check the place out? It’s not like anybody’s gonna notice you, and I’d rather not catch a breaking and entering charge, if I can avoid it.”

“Nice try, Emmett, but you know that I’m tethered to your location. I go where you go…your trusty, faithful sidekick.”

Emmett sighed. “Yeah, I know, but maybe you can give it a shot anyway.” His heart was jackhammering; perspiration oozed from his pores. Never much of a lawbreaker, he grimaced, envisioning officer-involved shootings and prison rapes.

“No time for cowardice, fella. Sure, it’s almost three in the morning, but Celine could wake up at any time for a potty break. What’s she gonna think when she finds your side of the bed empty? Probably that you snuck off for some side pussy.”

“Side…what do you know about pussy, you little pervert? You never felt one in your short, sad little life. Well, other than your mama’s when you slid outta it.”

“Dees-gusting, man. Why’d you have to go and bring that up? Who do you think you are, Oedipus? No wonder your mother hasn’t visited you in years…you being so taboo-minded and all.”

“Don’t talk about my mother, boy. I’m warning you.”

“Yeah, what are you gonna do about it? Murder me? Don’t forget that, this time, you asked for my help.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you with applesauce.”

“Fuck you with political rancor.”

“What’s that even mean?”

“No idea.”

Somehow, the banter had bolstered Emmett’s courage. He emerged from his Impala and strode toward the house. 

“That’s the spirit,” chirped Benjy from the iPhone. 

“Keep it down,” Emmett muttered. “Someone might hear you.”

He tried the front door. It was locked, as expected. Noting the freshly mowed lawn—one mustn’t turn off prospective buyers, after all—Emmett circumnavigated the home so as to reach a red cedar gate. Into the backyard he trespassed, praying to no deity in particular that no 911-dialing neighbor was observing him. His respiration and footfalls seemed spewed from a loudspeaker. Underlying them, a thousand imaginary sounds oppressed him. 

No swing set, no grill, no patio furniture—indeed, the place hardly seemed a home. Reaching its sliding glass door, Emmett tugged it, to no avail. Holding his cellphone to his mouth, he whispered, “Think you can help me out here?”

Throughout his time as a hauntee, Emmett had never known Benjy to so much as flick a light switch. Never had the boy shifted silverware or caused a cushion to levitate. His manifestations seemed limited to speakers and screens. Ergo, assuming that his question was merely rhetorical, Emmett swiveled on his heels, planning to search the back lawn for a rock he might smash his way in with.

Imagine, then, his surprise to hear the click of a latch. “Enter freely and of your own will,” Benjy said, quoting Dracula.

“There’s…uh…no alarm, is there?”

“Only one way to find out, champ.”

Emmett tugged the door open, then froze like a deer in car headlights. When no ear-splitting siren arrived to betray him, he wiped a palm across his forehead and strode inside. Seeking a light switch with splayed fingers, he paused when Benjy said, “What, are you stupid? A neighbor could see light shining through the window slats and call the cops on ya. Use this instead.” 

His iPhone’s LED flashlight function activated, furnishing rounded radiance. Dragging it across the flat planes of travertine flooring and walls, Emmett encountered neither furniture nor ornamentation. Not a singular sign of violence was present, and so he made his way to the kitchen. This place could use some new cabinets, he thought, scrutinizing chips and jutting splinters. That baseboard has seen better days, too. 

He rounded a corner, and then ascended a carpeted staircase, whose every other step creaked in protest. He’d fallen silent, as had Benjy. If anybody else was in the house, darkness-concealed, Emmett hoped that they were asleep, with no weapon at hand. Whether Martha Drexel or another maniac was present, he had no desire to perform a citizen’s arrest. Instead, he’d flee and find a payphone with no security cameras monitoring it, and provide the police with a description of a stranger he’d seen breaking into an empty residence. Hopefully they’d investigate in time and cover all escape routes. 

Upstairs, there awaited five doors, with all but the furthest wide open. 

Swiveling immediately rightward, Emmett stepped into the master bedroom, whose wool Berber carpet segued to the stone tiles of its ensuite bathroom. His flashlight met nothing more suspicious than wispy spider webs and an apparent glue stain, so he continued down the hall. 

Behind the other three open doors, two bedrooms and a bathroom awaited—all clean, all vacant. He lingered within each for no longer than a few seconds, so as to conduct a cursory inspection, and then whispered to Benjy, “Okay, here we go.”

Placing his free hand in his pocket, so as to leave no fingerprints, he wrapped his slacks around the closed door’s knob and turned it. Immediately, he was assaulted with the strongest of fetors. Retching, he fought to retain his last three meals. His temple throbbed; his eyes felt like melting gelatin. Whatever I came here to find, I’ve found it, he realized.

Pulling his shirt up until its collar reached his lower eyelids, he pinched his nostrils closed and breathed shallowly through his mouth. Nearly tolerable, he thought, swallowing down the sour taste that had surged up his throat. Now steady yourself, Emmett. You have to scope out the scene. A madwoman could be rushing you, waving a machete, and you’re too busy staring at your own feet to notice.

As if reading his thoughts, Benjy blurted, “Don’t worry, pal. You’re the only living organism left in this hellhole. That being the case, we should still get outta here ASAP—unless you want the media branding you the new Jeffrey Dahmer, that is.” 

Assuming that the fetid stench and Benjy’s words had prepared him for whatever sight might arrive, Emmett yet found himself startled when he directed his flashlight into the charnel chamber. Strewn from wall to wall, left as ghastly continents amid what seemed a gore ocean, were the remains of what must have been Lemuel Forbush. 

The boy had been disassembled into little pieces. Perhaps to restore some sliver of sanity to the world, Emmett attempted to wring from them a narrative. First, the killer, or killers, tore the hair from his scalp, he surmised. Clump by clump, slowly. And wouldn’t you know it, all of that hair has turned white. Next, they grabbed his lips and yanked them apart, until the boy’s mouth corners stretched to his earlobes. Of course, they left his eardrums alone so that he could hear his own shrieks when they stomped his arm and leg bones to shards that they then tore from his body. And what about all these swollen, purple, amputated fingers and toes? Look, they tore his limbs from his torso and pulled his heart from his chest. Was this some kind of sex crime? God, I don’t even wanna know. The evil that occurred here…demoniacal to say the least. 

He couldn’t take any more. Retreating, he flung himself from the room and staggered down the hallway, bashing the leftward wall, then the rightward wall, like a moth striking lightbulbs. Somehow, he managed to keep a grip on his cellphone. 

Careening down the staircase, and from there into the kitchen and living room, he felt as if his legs might buckle beneath him were his pace to slow one iota. The sliding glass door remained open. Exiting into the backyard, he didn’t even consider closing it behind him. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, heading back to his car, torn between dawdling and sprinting, knowing that any wrong move might draw the worst sort of attention. Is a neighbor watching me through parted window blinds? he wondered. Margie Goldwyn maybe, or one of her parents? What if someone wrote down my license plate? God, what was I thinking? Playing the role of a gumshoe…I could end up in prison. Graham will grow up with a convict for a father. Celine will most likely leave me, or at the very least find a new lover. 

Into his vehicle he crawled. Just as he was about to key on its ignition, Benjy spoke up for what felt like the first time in hours. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.

Clutching his chest as if that might slow his heartbeat, Emmett panted, “What…what are you talking about?”

“Fingerprints, doofus. You touched the front door’s knob earlier, and then the gate latch. The sliding glass door’s handle, too. Sure, you took precautions when you entered the murder room—opening it with your pants and all—but are you seriously going to skedaddle with that sort of evidence present?”

Emmett opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.

“Hurry up, you jackass. Get over there and make with some wipedowns.” 

*          *          *

After rubbing his shirt, vigorously, over the aforementioned knob, latch, and handle, then returning to his car with Benjy’s approval resounding, Emmett drove home—never exceeding the speed limit, sporadically searching his rearview mirror for emergency vehicle lights. Returning to a silent house, he was relieved to crawl into bed with Celine yet asleep. He wanted to hold her, to press himself against her for warmth and comfort, as he had countless times before, but couldn’t quite commit to it. Instead, his mind spun in futile circles. 

How am I going to alert the cops to the corpse without falling under suspicion? he wondered. His earlier plan to dial the nearest police station from a payphone now seemed like pure idiocy. 911 calls were recorded, after all—a fact he’d somehow ignored earlier—and the last thing he desired was for his voice to forever be connected with a child’s gruesome murder. 

I know, he then thought, I’ll cut words and numbers out of a newspaper and tape them to a sheet of paper, to create a message about that murder house. I’ll mail it to the cops from some random neighborhood mailbox, a couple of cities distant, making sure not to leave a fingerprint on the stamp. 

Such an effort seemed hassle-weighted, though. Perhaps a simpler solution existed. “Wait a minute,” Emmett muttered, slipping out of bed, so as to visit the kitchen drawer wherein he’d stashed his new purchase behind many odds and ends.

“Benjy, can you hear me?” he whispered into the iPhone’s mouthpiece, as if he was making a regular call. 

“I sure can,” chirped the dead boy. 

 “Shh, not so loud.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Benjy responded sotto voce. “Anyway, whaddaya want? Not phone sex, I hope. Please tell me you’re not turned-on right now. Not after all that…that…you know.”

“Come on, man. Don’t be an asshole. The thing is, I’ve been trying to figure out how to alert the cops to Lemuel’s corpse. There’s no way in hell that I can be associated with its discovery in any way. Not my voice, not my fingerprints, nothing. So I’m thinking that maybe you can help me.”

“What, like emotional support or something? ‘You are a beautiful, self-actualized woman, Emmett. Speak your truth, girl. The future is female.’ That sort of thing?”

“Damn.” Emmett shook his head. “You’re lucky that you died when you did, boy. You’d be crucified in this day and age, making light of women’s empowerment.”

“Oh, grow up, you snowflake. There’re no women in earshot. What, are you gonna tattle on me?”

“Snowflake? Me? Quite unlikely. Now, what was I saying again?”

“You’re asking for my help, just like before. Duh.” 

“Right, right. Well, remember that voice that you did all those years ago, when you were pretending to be a DJ? The one that made you sound older? Can you still do it?”

“I don’t know, Emmett, can I?” Benjy replied with a somewhat androgynous cadence. 

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Kind of transgender sounding—”

“Hey!”

“—but that’s perfectly fine. At least you sound old enough to drink at a bar.”

Returning to his regular articulation, Benjy said, “Why’d you ask me that, anyway? You sure this isn’t a phone sex thing? I mean, I’m flattered, but…”

 “Stop saying that, asshole. It wasn’t funny the first time. Anyway, if you’d think about it for a second, you’d know what I’m about to ask you. I want you to—”

“You want me to report the murder so that your voice isn’t associated in any way with it. I figured that out at the beginning of this convo. I just wanted to revel in your shitty social skills for a while. Seriously, man, you need to get out more, meet some new people maybe.” 

“Okay, well, can you do it?”

“Sure, my consciousness is already in your phone right now. It would be easy enough to call the cops from it.”

“Great, that’s great. Can you—”

“There’s only one problem.”

“Oh?”

“Your phone number, dummy. They’d be able to trace the call back to you easily.”

“A payphone then. Guess I did have the right idea earlier.”

“Sure, that would work. But ask yourself this: When was the last time you saw a payphone in this city? Particularly one with no security camera pointed at it?”

“Huh.” Benjy was right; Emmett couldn’t recall seeing a payphone anywhere in Oceanside since his teenage years. He and his friends had used them to dial dozens of sex-lines in those days—half-horny, giggling—hanging up when seductive call-answerers asked for credit card numbers. Though he could drive around the city and possibly find one, how could he be certain that there was no security camera observing him? Some of them were so tiny, they could be concealed within pebbles. 

I trespassed in that home with the hollowest plan, he realized. Deep down, I must have assumed that we’d find nothing wrong. Maybe gluing a serial killer-style note together using newspaper clippings really is the best way to do it. It’ll probably take forever, though, and what if somebody sees me? Celine or Graham, maybe, or some snooping stranger if I’m elsewhere. Hey, what about the Internet?

“An email might work,” he said.

Though his lungs had long since decomposed, Benjy yet sighed. “Not from any computer, tablet, or phone that’s registered to you,” he said. “The cops can track you down through your IP address.”

“So, like, a library computer?”

“Sure, but they could have security cameras, too. I think I know one thing that might work, though.”

“What?”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

*          *          *

“Hello, officers,” said Emmett, standing at the edge of his driveway, feeling sheepish. Two cops, wearing identical scowls beneath their handlebar mustaches, had just emerged from their cruiser, to target him with weighted squints, as if attempting to determine which illicit substances rode his bloodstream. 

“Hello, civilian,” one of the uniformed men answered, though neither seemed to move their lips. “You called about some people harassing you?”

“Yeah, I sure did,” Emmett lied. “I heard some voices shouting all kinds of hate speech. Three fellas, at least. They woke me up and I went outside to confront them, but by then they were speeding away. I couldn’t tell what kind of vehicle they were driving, though I’m pretty sure it was black. I’m hoping that you officers can check the neighborhood out, in case they’re still around. Scare them off…or arrest them if they’re up to something even worse.”

“Sure, we’ll do that,” answered a voice different from the first speaker’s, though Emmett still couldn’t discern which pair of lips were in motion. He felt as if he was speaking to mannequins, as if a bizarre dream had engulfed him. “Well, if there’s nothing else, we’d better get to it.”

I can’t let them leave just yet, Emmett thought to himself. Benjy might not be finished. “Hey, are there any home security measures that I should look into,” he asked, “in case those fellas are more dangerous than they seem? I have a wife and a son, and would hate to see them in danger.” Well, they’ll think I’m entirely idiotic now, he thought, but at least I bought us a little more time.

The cops had already turned their backs on Emmett, and were heading back to their patrol car. Fortunately, their saunters slowed so that each could offer two suggestions, alternating without talking over one another, as if they’d practiced their answers beforehand.

“A security system is never a bad idea.”

“Can’t go wrong with a doorbell camera.”

“Get a neighborhood watch going.”

“Raise a pit bull.”

With no words of farewell, they climbed into their cruiser and accelerated down the street. 

Emmett shivered, rubbed his arms, and asked, “Well, Benjy, did your plan work?”

“It sure did,” the voice from the iPhone speaker confirmed. “I hopped into the celly of one of those cops—the dude’s name is Duane Clementine, believe it or not—and used its web browser to go to the FBI’s website. There, I filled out an electronic tip form in Officer Clementine’s name. I wrote that there’s a corpse at that address we visited, and it’s most likely the remains of Lemuel Forbush. 

“Sure, Officer Clementine is gonna have some serious explaining to do now, since it’ll look like he went against police protocol by not calling in Homicide right away. I doubt he’ll be arrested or anything, though…lose his job maybe. I wonder if he’ll believe that he actually found the body, sent in the tip, and somehow forgot about it later. Maybe he’s a heavy drinker. Who knows?”

“An entirely new sort of scanner,” the carnival barker assures you,

Fervent-eyed beneath wart-bounteous brows, slobber-snarling.

“Fields and waves arrayed around, within, sidereal.

An experience without comparison,

 Put twenty bucks in my jar.”

 

Money exits your pocket as if you have no say in the matter,

And you are escorted into a gaudily painted, flaking lean-to.

Settled into a reclining chair that oozes a sigh out,

You find yourself facing a monitor

That occupies an entire wall.

 

A thrumming then sounds for your besieged eardrums,

As vents exude lightning-streaked mold fog.

Your abdomen rumbles to accompany

That which clenches your hands

And compresses your lips.

 

Such sights then unspool to fill that which was dormant,

Phantoms capering athwart the monitor’s screen.

Transcriptions of speeches you’ve given

Sketches of your own experiences

Viewed through other eyes.

 

Typed outlines and handwritten 3x5 card jottings

Suggested by a creative writing class exercise

Constitute the nucleus of your origin.

Aware of your own irrelevance

You collapse into vacuity.