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

  “Don't worry; I'll be as diplomatic as I can. I understand it's a delicate situation."

  "Very well then. I'll stay in my apartment Mr. Rook. Until it’s...over." She closed the door, leaving the hallway in darkness.

  "This way," the banshee said as she led me down to the landing below and then the cellar stairs. She looked almost apprehensive as she pushed the door open.

  A flight of steps led to another short landing and a door, this one ajar. The temperature dropped and I couldn't help but shiver as I reached for the light switch. I flicked it and nothing happened, so I pulled my flashlight from my shoulder bag and switched it on.

  Fragments of glass crunched under my shoes as we descended. I looked up at the light fixture to find the bulb missing and the ceiling covered with jagged tears that continued down the walls in ragged lines through the shredded wallpaper.

  "He can't help himself," the banshee said. "It's his rage."

  The door to the cellar was battered, scratched and marred with black marks that were powdery, like coal dust.

  The first thing I spotted was the upended wooden chair shoved against the wall. Its back had been torn away and loose spindles lay scattered across the floor. Above it was a painting of a golden wheat field that hung sideways, its frame shattered. A smaller torn canvas of a wolf chasing a cat lay on the carpet. The rest of the cellar’s contents were in a similar state. Upended boxes, chairs and a small wooden desk that had been crammed into the corner, its drawers yanked open, papers and pens scattered across the floor.

  "Interesting," I said, noting the wine rack against the far wall. It was the only thing that had been left intact and reasonably undisturbed and the floor in front of it was conspicuously free of the detritus that littered the rest of the room. I took a look at a few of the bottles, most were French and judging by the various vintages, well aged. All told, it seemed to be quite a sophisticated and heady collection. And then I looked back at the rest of the room and the desolation that had been wrought everywhere but here. "Where is he?" I asked.

  The banshee peered up as she gathered the papers from the floor. "Right next to you."

  A cold shudder shot through me. I glanced round as if I might catch a glimpse of the entity, but all I could see was shadows and dust.

  "Here," the banshee reached out a hand. It took a moment to realize she meant for me to hold it. Her fingers were surprisingly warm, her palm soft.

  I shivered again as a crackle of energy passed between us. And then I saw him. "Oh."

  He was tall, and his white shirt and black trousers were way more formal than I'd been expecting. Judging by his appearance I'd say he was somewhere in his early thirties. He had a long thin face, bright clever blue eyes, and a freckled patrician’s nose. His receding hair was slicked back, giving him an old fashioned appearance, yet I could tell by the cut of his clothes he was not long departed from this earth.

  "Get out," he said, his voice low and commanding, the steel in his eyes withering.

  "No," I said, "I came to resolve this." I gestured to the chaos in the cellar.

  His ghostly figure strode across the room toward an old brick hearth in the center of the far wall, and his shirt seemed to glow. The light began to spread through his entire form. He reached out and grabbed a poker from beside the grate and lifted it toward me. "I told you to go."

  I went for my gun but let my hand fall. Bullets wouldn't stop him.

  And then he came at me. He swung the poker, and I ducked back, instinctively pulling my hand from the banshee's. The ghost vanished, but the poker was plain enough as it descended in an arc toward my head. I jumped aside and grabbed a broken pool cue from the floor and used it to parry his attack. The poker lifted again and smashed into the table behind me as I rolled away.

  “Stop!” the banshee cried. I glanced her way and took a step back. She'd changed. Her hair was wild and flowed and shifted like fiery serpents, while her face was that of a withered hag's. "Stop it now!" she cried, as she reached out and appeared to grab thin air.

  The poker fell to the ground.

  She lowered her hand and held it out for me to take. I grabbed her wrist and the ghost appeared once more, his rage choked with pain. He backed across the room, and slowly, his anger returned and as it did, a surge spread across his entire form, turning him to pure white light.

  "No!" The banshee reached out, her long fingers spread wide. Gradually the light began to flow into her fingertips, dimming his energy.

  He continued to walk back until he had nowhere left to go. "What did you do?" he demanded.

  "I took a little of your fire," the banshee replied. "And I'll take a lot more if you don't stop with the threats."

  Anger flashed in his eyes as he brushed his finger across his chest and as he did, I saw it. A thin fluttering gash so deep I could see straight through it. "What happened to you?"

  "You want to know?" he asked. "You really want to know, living man?" He gave a hard, tight smile. "Or did you just come to gawk at me like you would an animal in the zoo?"

  "I came to reason with you, and to ask you to leave. I'm hoping you'll go of your own volition but if not, so be it. And while I'll admit I've had next to no experience dealing with..."

  "Ghosts" the man said. "Shades? You think I didn't notice the way you had to clasp her hand in order to see me? Well forgive me if I don't take your threats seriously."

  I decided to try another tack. Being personable wasn't getting me anywhere. "I work for the Organization. You know who they are?"

  He shook his head, and suddenly it made sense. He was blinkered. Or had been. Non-magical, even in death. "The Organization deals with what you'd call supernatural threats. I work for them. We have specialized weapons at our disposal and a network of experienced agents, many of who could take down a raging ghost with ease."

  "As can I," the banshee added.

  The man glanced from her to me and slowly unfolded his arms. "I have nowhere else to go. If I leave and it finds me, it will destroy me." His fingers strayed to the wound in his chest once more.

  "Why don't you tell me what it is, who you are and how you came to end up here? I might be able to help."

  "You want to hear my story?" The man sighed. "So be it. My name's Richard Hallick and three months ago I was just as alive as you are. Three months almost to the day. Until that rotten low-life scumbag mugged me at the docks. I was drunk as usual, and thought I could take him. As it turns out, Dutch courage is of little use against a knife. He stabbed me in the gut and took my wallet. It had all of twenty dollars and change in it, so that was about how much my life was worth, apparently." He blinked slowly and the dregs of his anger were eclipsed by a terrible melancholy.

  "So he made that wound in your chest?" I asked.

  "No. No, this wasn't him." He covered the gash with his hand and glanced to the shadows in the corner, his eyes darkening before he continued. "I spent those final moments with my face in the gutter. Watching as cars flew past. No one stopped to help, I guess they assumed I was just some drunk bum. I suppose they weren't that far from the truth…but I was worth something once.” He flexed his fingers. "I was a pianist. I played all over the world, toured some of the most prestigious cities. It was a good life, and it paid well. Very well. But that was a long time ago."

  "So what happened?" I asked. "As you laid there along the side of the road." I needed to know about that spectral wound.

  "The very last thing I saw was the face of a little girl gazing from a car window. I can still see the pity in her eyes, but it turns out pity's nowhere near as valuable as a medic. I died there, the exhaust and fumes tainting my final breath. And then there was nothing but darkness. And my last frantic thoughts... or what I assumed were my last thoughts. I was certain I’d soon be gone." He snapped his fingers. "Nothing but a bad memory. But then I heard it. A roar. Like a great, hidden waterfall. It was coming from somewhere in the void. I sensed it guiding me toward it, and whatever was to come next. I assumed it
would be nothing good. Life gave me so few gifts so how could death bring anything better?"

  "It sounds like you were quite successful when you played the piano," I said.

  "I was, for a while. But that was all stripped away." He gripped his sleeve, his fingers trembling. Had booze killed his career? It seemed so.

  "So tell me about the sound you heard. Did you follow it?" I asked.

  “No, I fled into the darkness as fast as I could, searching as I went."

  “For what?"

  "For my wife, Alaine. I had to see her one last time, had to let her know how much I loved her. To tell her in death what I'd rarely said in life. I was never present or appreciative of what I’d had. And so I fought that great, cosmic pull, and slowly fought my way back to the land of the living. I passed through so many places on the way, such strange, curious places. But eventually I made my way home." He fell silent, lost in his thoughts.

  "What happened?"

  His hands clenched and slow, cold fury passed over his face. "When I returned to my house, I found another there."

  "Another man?"

  "No, not a man, a beast. He was standing by my bed, stroking my wife's hair as she slept. A creature wearing my form, a monster dressed in my skin. I flew into a rage, tried to strike him, but he turned on me, drove me back through the house. He was strong, so much stronger than me. When I tried to escape, he struck me with a single, shining claw. And this is what he did," Richard pointed to the wound in his chest. "And he would have done worse if I hadn't fled. I can't tell you how much it hurts. The pain..." He clasped a hand over it. "That talon pierced the core of my very being.”

  He gazed to his scuffed black shoes, before continuing, "I wandered the streets after that, haunting the world of the living. The very streets I'd once known so well. Now and then I met others like me. Lost and damned souls. We avoided one another, too weak to confront the shame of each other's existences."

  "Why?"

  "We knew we weren’t supposed to be here, that this world was not for us. We were cowards, unable to let go. Reduced to wandering outcasts in the very places we were born. And so I walked day and night through the streets until finally I passed by this house and I heard it. The piano. Satie. The tune wafted down from the window like a dream," he glanced to the ceiling. "It drew me in, and I found this cellar. I'd longed for a quiet dark place. A refuge. So I laid up here, tried to restore my energy but it..." he ran a finger over the wound in his chest, "it won't heal. The creature cut me too deep. Wounded my very soul." Rage and fear flashed through his eyes. "I'm coming apart, unraveling. I can feel it. I'll fade to insignificance, and then what? What will happen to my wife? She's trapped there, at home with that... thing!"

  The air shifted and, as his anger flared, the edges of his form began to glow once more.

  "I might be able to help your wife. But this," I swept my hand before me, "this destruction has to stop. It's no way to treat your host, is it?"

  "Host? My wife's the host, to a monster wearing my face and feeding upon her. I saw it, draining her of life. This," he nodded to the room, "is nothing but bric-à-brac and nostalgia."

  “It's someone else's bric-à-brac and nostalgia," I said. "And you've been scaring the life out of her. I'll go now and help your wife as best I can but you'll have to leave this house. That's the deal."

  "You'd do that?"

  "Yes." Of course it was probably the last thing I needed to saddle myself with. Moonlighting was one thing, but I didn't want find myself getting hauled in under full-on mercenary charges. But then again, Richard wasn't exactly paying me. He was suffering, his wife was being preyed upon, and there was nothing he could do. He was just a guy that was in over his head and needed some help. And if this beast really was on the prowl it was only a matter of time until the Organization got word of it and stepped in, so I was saving them the headache. At least that’s how I squared it. "Where do... where did you live?”

  Richard gave me the address.

  “I’ll go there right now, you settle things here.” I glanced at the tear in his chest. While you can.

  It was almost dark as I left Mrs. Fitz's house. The sky was awash with violet, orange and golden streaks, and the crescent moon peeked over the horizon. I was about to head down the street when my phone rang. It was my boss.

  - Erland

  "Morgan," I said by way of greeting. We'd worked together for years but we weren't exactly close. I never took it personally, I was fairly sure no one was particularly close to Erland Underwood.

  "I have a job for you. There's a gang of demons that have been terrorizing the Cathedral. We need them gone."

  Damn. It was the first decent assignment he offered me in what felt like weeks. I glanced back to the house and caught a glimpse of Mrs. Fitz drawing the curtains in the upper window. "I can't get to it right now. Can you give me a day or-"

  "I'm afraid not, this needs an immediate resolution. They're drawing too much attention." Erland sighed. "Don't worry, I'll get someone else on it. Let me know when you're available for work again, Rook." He hung up.

  "Great," I said, as a large Persian cat scrambled along the wall beside me, its bright blue eyes gleaming as they gazed into mine. I scratched its furry chin before putting the phone in my pocket and walking on.

  I glanced back to the house. I sensed Richard didn't have much time, which meant I needed to get the problem dealt with so he could at least know his wife was safe before he passed. Again. "Onwards," I said, as I headed on and the cat's purr receded behind me.

  Richard's old neighborhood was on the upper west side of the city, nestled among a sprawling suburb of large, family homes. The houses were on spacious lots and most were heavily landscaped with wide, neatly clipped lawns. The place reeked of affluence, which made sense, considering Richard's well-tailored clothes. Finally, I reached his home at the end of the cul-de-sac and it stood out like a blackened eye.

  The place was huge, at least by my standards. Two floors, an arched driveway and a portico over the front door but the painted stucco walls were dingy, stained and peeling. The shutters and balconies had fallen into disrepair and many of the boards were warped or missing all together. I wondered if this slow descent into ruin had matched Richard's decline into alcoholism. It seemed likely. Or maybe the entity that had taken his place had inspired the decay.

  The house waited darkly in the moonlight, but for a single flickering yellow glow in a second floor window. It was possibly one of the least inviting places I'd ever visited, and I wasn't exactly enthusiastic about getting a closer look.

  A loose gravel path led up to the house, but I didn't want to announce my approach, so I made my way across the overgrown lawn and ducked through a cluster of withered fruit trees. I paused as I stepped on a fallen apple that crumbled beneath my shoe. Grubs slithered from the rotten fruit, their forms fat and waxy. I kicked the repulsive mess across the grass and hurried on.

  The wind moaned and stirred the bare branches and they clattered and scratched together.A foul odor wafted down from the house. It had a sulfurous tang.

  Brimstone. Evil.

  I pulled my gun from its holster and slipped it in my waistband for quicker access as I continued up the long wide steps leading to the front door.

  It was locked. I glanced at the knocker, a rusty-black heavy iron ring. There was no way I was going to herald my arrival. Not when I could already sense things stirring behind those sallow crumbling walls. Things that were most definitely not human.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pair of charged quartz crystals. I clasped them in my palm and a surge of power passed through me. Pure, unadulterated magic. I thought about using it to dissolve the door's lock into rust, but instead I employed it to boost my sight as I scoured the balcony for a hidden spare key.

  There. Below a large plant pot filled with dry powdery soil and a dry, woody, leafless stem. The key glowed like an ember as I shifted the pot and snatched it up. It was a perfect fit. The lo
ck released and the door swung open silently as I gave it a careful push and stepped inside.

  Amid the darkness the air hung with a thick cloying scent of dusty rot. Coats, scarves, shoes and jewelry were scattered across the wide polished floor. Vases full of flowers had dried up into lifeless brittle things and books lay scattered along the showy ornate staircase like dead birds.

  I strained to hear but there was nothing but an eerie silence punctuated by a distant dripping tap and the sound of my own footsteps as I inched toward one of the rooms.

  The door creaked far louder and longer than I'd expected as I pushed it open and stepped through. I checked each corner first before venturing further. It was riddled with darkness but I could see well enough to know it was a living room, and that it was just as shambolic as the foyer. Vast swaths of the varnished wood floor were buried under mounds of discarded clothes and piles of musty books. I spotted a lonely silver fork gleaming in the gloom near a muddy trail of footprints that led further into the murk.

  Moonlight filtered through a crumbling shutter, illuminating the grand piano near the window. It was the only thing in the room free of dust.

  Thud

  The sound came from the floor above. My heart raced. As someone who made a living tracking the creatures blinkereds considered supernatural, or Nightkind as we called them, this wasn’t new to me. But I still felt woefully unprepared for this particular task.

  The air began to buzz. I turned expecting legions of flies, but there was nothing there. Nothing I could see at least. "Something wicked this way comes," I muttered as I pulled my gun. “And there was me hoping this might be a quick, simple job."

  I glanced up as the thumping continued across the floor above. It was like a slow, heavy tread. I was about to return to the hall and venture upstairs when the flesh on the back of my neck prickled. As if someone had run the tip of a feather across my skin.