The Ghost's Story: A Morgan Rook Investigation Read online

  The Ghost’s Story

  Kit Hallows

  The Ghost’s Story

  I groaned as I climbed out of my beat-up car and stood outside my rundown apartment. The landlord's truck was bang smack in the middle of the driveway, blocking the spot where I usually parked.

  "Great," I muttered, as I grabbed my groceries from the back seat. The bulk of the weight was beer, but I'd thrown in a few items that could be classified as food, if bread and salami counted as breakfast and possibly dinner. I glanced up as muffled shouts came from the living room window. It was ajar, despite the cold grey November afternoon, for a reason only my ever-so-slightly temperamental roommate could know.

  I climbed the short flight of crooked wooden stairs, nudged the door open and the shouts grew louder. Most of the noise was erupting from Barney, my roommate. It sounded like, in the midst of his fury, he’d lost his voice and could only produce sounds that resembled the hisses and groans of a smashed-up kettle. He stood in the living room, the back of his neck a vivid shade of scarlet.

  My landlord, Mitch, stood behind the kitchen counter, screwdriver in hand, his manner more defensive than aggressive.

  Barney shook the large cucumber gripped in his fist like a cosh, as his face grew even redder below his tightly curled mousey hair. "Get out!" he cried, his first legible words.

  I assumed he meant Mitch, but his demand was quite possibly aimed at me. "What seems to be the problem…gentlemen?” I asked, forcing a neutral tone in an effort to calm the situation before it went nuclear.

  Mitch's beady eyes flitted my way, and the pencil mustache hovering over his lip twitched. "What’s the problem? I came over to fix the water heater. You know, so you guys can have hot water. Just like I said when I called and left the message. Repeatedly. But it seems Mr. Hiscocks here, didn't get it. Because I'd barely got the cover off the damn thing and he comes charging out of his room wielding that vegetable like a man possessed."

  "Actually, it's a fruit," I said, "not a vegetable." I ignored his dagger-glare as I nimbly stepped forward and disarmed Hiscocks before he could so much as look my way. "Nice going," I whispered as I tossed the cucumber into the bin.

  "Thank you for the clarification, Mr. Rook," Mitch continued. "Now, as I just explained to Mr. Hiscocks, I want both of you to pack your stuff and get out by Wednesday."

  "Fine!" Barney shouted. His eyes narrowed as he wheeled toward me. "I can't live with this freak any longer anyway!"

  I was the freak? I ignored him as he stomped across the spotty threadbare carpet, shoved the door to his squalid room open, and slammed it behind him. I turned back to Mitch. "So why are you throwing me out? What the hell does any of this have to do with me?"

  "I'll be honest, Mr. Rook. I didn't like you the moment I set eyes on you. But you looked desperate, and I figured it was going to be hard to find someone to room with Barney, given his winning personality. Which, I may add, has definitely gotten a lot worse since you turned up like the proverbial bad penny. I don't meant to be rude, but there's something wrong with you, Rook. You know it, I know it."

  I was about to argue, but shrugged instead. I could see by the icy resolve in his gaze that there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell he was going to concede. For a moment I considered using a little magic to change his mind... but no, that wouldn't be right. I didn't use magic to sway blinkereds, not unless it was a life or death situation.

  We unlocked glares as Barney emerged from his room, his battered suitcase in hand. I was fairly sure, by the resigned slope in his shoulder, that this wasn't the first time this had happened to him. He turned and glowered at me and when he spoke his voice was a flat monotone. "You think I don't know what you've been doing? Think I don't know what you are? Goddamned Satanist!" he hissed one final time before storming to the door and wrenching it open. There was a short blast of cold air and that was the last I saw of Barney Hiscocks.

  Mitch appraised me with a long, cool look. "See what I mean, Mr. Rook? It’s not normal, and as for the-"

  "You can't give me more time?" I asked. "You're seriously telling me I’ve got to be out of here in two days? Despite the fact I haven't done anything wrong." I knew I had rights, but that would mean making a stink and my entire existence hinged on staying off the radar. The last thing I needed was to get tangled up with legalities, and I got the impression Mitch was more than acutely aware of that.

  "Well, you've always paid me on time and I appreciate that. So I suppose I can give you until Sunday. Okay?"

  “Well, you can't get any fairer than that." I gave him a sour glare, pulled a bottle of stout from the bag and flipped the lid off. I raised the bottle to him and took a swig before slumping back on the ragged sofa. I watched his reflection in the bulky old television screen as Mitch packed his tools and left, closing the door softly behind him.

  "Great." I took another slurp of beer and tore off a chunk of bread.

  November wasn't shaping up well, not by a long shot. My assignments from my work at the Organization had dried up to the point of non-existence. And it wasn't like there was a shortage of paranormal crime in the city. So they'd clearly been passing me up in favor of other agents and all the while my roommate had been increasingly losing whatever was left of his already addled mind, no doubt from living in proximity to someone wielding magic. But, at least the Barney problem had been solved. Now I just needed to focus on finding a new roof to put over my head and a means of getting the hot shower I'd so desperately been looking forward to.

  I glanced up as a phone began to ring. Not my regular phone. It was the tinny ringtone of the phone I used for dealing with normal people, or blinkereds as the magical community called the rest of humanity. "Where are you?" I asked, as I rooted through my room. To call it a mess would have been an understatement and it looked like it belonged to a particularly listless slob of a teenager rather than a man in his early thirties.

  There.

  I plucked the phone out from behind a pile of grimoires I'd been holding for a friend and answered the call. "Morgan Rook," I said straightening up and spotting my reflection in the full sized mirror beside the bed. It wasn't a good look. The pomade in my hair looked more like grease and my black sweater had seen better days.

  "Mr. Rook?"

  The lady sounded mature, her voice soft but anxious. I knew it from somewhere. Where? Ah, yes. Lyra...?

  "Lyra Fitz," she said, as if reading my mind. Which wasn't entirely out the question. "Do you remember me, Mr. Rook? You helped me with that... problem tenant I had."

  Yes, I remembered. Her tenant had been bitten by a vampire and had had no idea she was turning. It was about this time last year, Halloween. There were kitschy orange jack o' lanterns outside the front door of Lyra's grand Victorian house and I recalled she’d had a thing for classical music. She’d seemed very strange. Eccentric and not the type of character you'd expect to run into on the refined, leafy side of the city but I'd liked her. Plus she'd paid well, and had appreciated my discretion and promptness when it came to removing the vampire from her home.

  "Sure, how are you?” I said. "Is there a problem?" It wouldn't have surprised me if there was. Mrs. Fitz had been gifted with a kind of second sight from what I could tell, despite the fact that she was blinkered. Which had made her and her dwelling quite the draw for supernatural phenomenon.

  "Well, yes, there is. I don't like to be a bother but... but there's something in my attic. Something that shouldn't be there." She was doing her best to sound calm. Polite even. But I sensed the undercurrent of fear in her voice.

  I sighed. I'd been hoping to give up the moonlighting. Hoping to go legit. But the job
s I'd been doing for the Organization were drying up and something had to give. Plus I’d need first month’s rent and a deposit on the next decrepit hovel I'd be calling home. "Okay, Mrs. Fitz, hang tight. I'm on the way."

  The wardrobe in the corner of my room had a heavy enchantment over it, one I'd cast to keep Barney from snooping around. In hindsight, it seemed stray elements of the magic might have seeped through the walls, further disturbing his already unhinged mind. I pulled the doors, took out my gun and grabbed a shoulder bag filled with potions, crystals and a small cache of weapons. Tools of the trade. Naturally I wasn't authorized to use the Organization’s equipment when I was off the clock, but I'd never been one to follow rules.

  I sighed as I strapped on my holster, I’d been looking forward to knocking back a few beers and zoning out to whatever mind-numbing entertainment I could conjure up on our sketchy television. But that marvelous plan had flown right out the window, which was still ajar and welcoming a sharp icy chill into the place.

  Lyra Fitz's neighborhood wasn't very far from the city center. The first thing I noticed as I headed down the chalky white sidewalk was how shiny and clean the cars were. It was like they were fresh out of the showroom. Hell, a couple of them probably were.

  The honeysuckle that hung over the red brick walls were perfectly pruned and each lawn, shrub and pear tree looked picture perfect. It was a nice place and even though no one had given me so much as a second look, I still felt like a walking sore thumb.

  I glanced up as a cat meowed. It was perched on a wall beside me and its shiny coat looked almost cobalt blue in the glowing dusk. I reached up and patted it on the head, scratched its chin until it purred and I was about to move on when I felt a soft thud against my shin. I looked down to find another cat, an ashy-grey British shorthair with gleaming topaz eyes, rubbing against my leg. "Hi!" I said and I took a few more steps before a sleek black cat leaped up onto the wall and thrust its behind into the air while it stretched.

  It was starting to feel like I was being ambushed.

  Mrs. Fitz's house was well maintained and painted soft white, and the windows on each floor gleamed without even a speck of dust to mar their bright glassy surfaces. I pushed the gate open and climbed the wide steps to the front door. Beside it was a long panel with three doorbells but only one had a name attached; Mrs. Fitz. I rang it, half expecting to hear a sonorous bell.

  Moments later the door opened and Lyra Fitz appeared. Despite her masked, but visible distress she still managed to cut an imposing, yet elegant figure. Her neatly plucked eyebrows rose up towards the silvery blonde beehive-like hairdo elegantly positioned on top of her head. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Rook." Her eyes flashed behind her pince-nez glasses as she glanced at the street and lowered her voice. "Please, come in." She was just as perfectly cordial as I remembered and carried the same aura of warmth I'd found the year before, but there was an underlying chill. Fear.

  I stepped into the house and waited as she closed the front door. Ahead was a flight of steps, a short hall and a door leading to the cellar. I noticed right away that, despite the hiss of the radiators lining the walls, it was colder inside than out. "So what has been troubling you, Mrs. Fitz?" I asked.

  She glanced toward the cellar door and pursed her lips, and then she gestured toward the stairs. "There's something in the attic, Mr. Rook. And I don't think it should be here."

  "Something?"

  "I... I know it sounds strange, but you know all about strange, don't you? I hear singing at night. Such terribly sweet, melancholy songs. I don't mind them so much but what I can't stand is the wailing. It's a dreadful sound, Mr. Rook, even if it is distant."

  "Distant?"

  "It sounds like it's coming from behind a wall. And not a normal wall either. It's hard to explain. I can hear it, but it’s muffled, which can be quite the blessing."

  "How long has this been going on?" I asked.

  "Months. But it wasn't such an issue before. I mean, I quite liked the singing, even if it is so terribly sad. But recently..." Her eyes flitted toward the cellar door and away. "Recently it's gotten out of hand. Louder, shriller. And the wailing is worse than a yowling cat. And I can't abide cats, Mr. Rook. Not for a single moment."

  I remembered. She'd spoken at length about cats before, as well as their sinister plans. I would have had her down as suffering from serious paranoia, but I'd sensed there was more to it than that. That perhaps the cats were a scapegoat for her psychic abilities and she blamed them rather than accept the fact that her grasp of realms beyond this one was hers to own. A gift. A curse. "Okay, let's go take a look," I said as I climbed the carpeted stairs.

  I was on Mrs. Fitz's landing when I heard the song’s soft, low lament. "Wait here please," I said as I took a pair of earphones from my pocket and plugged them into my phone. The voice wasn't human. No, it was something otherworldly, something I wanted to avoid exposing myself to, for now. I wheeled through my music until I found Black Sabbath's debut album and cranked on The Wizard. An old classic that seemed apt. I climbed the stairs as the harmonica gave away to the crash of drums and guitars.

  The mournful song from the other side of the door grew louder and tugged at the edges of my consciousness. I turned up the Sabbath to shield my senses as best I could, then opened the door and strode into the converted attic.

  I saw her almost right away, nestling in the shadows of the open plan kitchen. I moved past the old sofa in the living room, inched toward the window and drew back the curtains, letting a dim wash of light into the room.

  "Banshee," I said, while the guitars and drums continued to pound my eardrums. I held my hand out for her to stop singing as I stepped toward her. She turned my way, her slender face framed by wild red and yellow hair that seemed to flicker and crackle like fire. She was beautiful in a pale, melancholy way, and her large green eyes were filled with tears. She crossed her arms over her chest and rested her hands on the sleeves of her tawny dress.

  "Please stop," I called, my voice loud in my head. “I'd like to speak with you."

  She watched as I paused a few steps away and kept a respectful distance. She seemed surprised that I could see her, but finally she gave a slight nod and stopped her song.

  I pulled the earphones out. "I'm Morgan Rook, and you are?"

  "Lost. Alone."

  "I'm sorry," I said. I knew what it meant to be both those things. I forced a smile. "What brought you here, to this house?"

  "I came in search of sanctuary and peace," the banshee said, the coldness in her tone thawing just a little. She had a pretty voice with a faint Irish lilt.

  "Where did you come from?”

  She nodded toward the window. "From afar, I've traveled the streets, the woods and mountains. I've wandered for decades, so many deaths, so much grief. But then I found this place. It's a good home." The banshee's eyes flitted to the floor. "The lady of this house has a kind soul."

  "Indeed. But I'm sorry to have to tell you that you've outstayed your welcome. You know, all that wailing, it doesn't go down too well with blinkereds."

  "I cannot help it. I cannot withstand any more of his pain." The banshee shivered. "It's too much."

  "Whose pain?"

  "The man in the cellar. He hurts, he rages. And in turn his agony becomes mine."

  "Man?" I thought back to the fear in Lyra Fitz's eyes as she glanced to the cellar door. She'd been keeping something from me, and if I was going to solve her problems, I needed to find out what.

  "He died,' the banshee continued. "And in so much torment. It grows worse by the day. I don't know what ails him, but I feel his agony and it hurts, unbearably."

  "Is he a ghost?"

  The banshee's lips curled in a bittersweet smile. "You use such a simple word to sum up so many. But yes, the living would call him a ghost. Or poltergeist even."

  Great. Not only had I got myself roped into bargaining with a manically depressed banshee, now I was going to have to chase off a disgruntled poltergeist,
something I was totally unequipped for. I wondered why I bothered to answer my damned phone, it was never good news.

  "He's been smashing apart her house," the banshee continued. "But she senses his pain just as I do. She has sight beyond sight. And even though he frightens her, she’s seen glimpses of his tragedy. And she pities him too."

  "I need to…talk to him," I said. "But I can't see..."

  "Ghosts."

  "Yeah, ghosts."

  "I can help you with that. But do you think you can reason with him, and convince him to move on so we can live in peace."

  "I'm sorry," I shook my head. “No. Neither one of you can stay here. Your world and theirs are not supposed to intersect. It's my job to keep the two apart."

  Anger flickered over her face and for a moment I worried she might start screeching and wailing but resignation dimmed the fire in her eyes.

  "However," I said, "I can help you. I know a place. You can make it yours." I thought of the abandoned house on the south side of the city where I'd cleared out a pack of werewolves. No one in their right mind would go near it. "There's no claim on the property, and I can't see anyone moving in, not with the horrors that occurred there. So it's all yours if you want it."

  "It sounds grand," she said with a sarcastic smile, but nodded. "I suppose I'd sooner live alone than amongst blinkereds. Nice though the old lady is."

  "Good. Now, are you ready to head down to the cellar?"

  She stepped from the shadows and I followed her as she glided down the stairs. Mrs. Fitz still waited on the landing below, watching from her doorway. Clearly she couldn't see the banshee, but she still shivered as she passed by. "Everything okay, Mr. Rook?"

  "Yes. The attic's taken care of, but I need to pay the cellar a visit."

  "Oh," Mrs. Fitz said. "I'm not sure about that. You see-"

  "You called on me, Mrs. Fitz, and I’m not going to leave until all the problems are solved. ”

  "Right. Well... please be gentle with him, Mr. Rook. I don't know who he is or why he’s settled here, but I've felt his pain. Terrible, terrible pain." Her eyes flitted to the banshee, as if she might have seen her, and then she glanced away.