Hungry Ghosts 01 Hungry Ghosts

by Ron Ripley

  “Who?” Connor asked in a hushed tone.

  “The hungry ones,” his mother answered. “It’s because you’re special.”

  “How am I special?” Connor asked her. “What do you even mean by that?”

  “If they eat you, if any of us do,” she whispered. “We’ll be full. And we’re all so hungry, Connor.”

  Rex leaped up, straining at the leash and barking furiously.

  Connor twisted around, his eyes jerking from left to right. He saw small, animal shapes darting through the shadows.

  “A bite,” his mother whispered behind him, “that’s all I want, Connor. A bite. Doesn’t your mother deserve a taste?”

  A cold hand raked across his neck, and Connor pulled away. He hurried into the street, stepping into the harsh light of a street lamp. Around the edges of the light, where it faded into darkness, twenty or thirty dull, green eyes glowed. Some were small, and others were large. All stared at him. Dark, rough paws reached in, but Rex snarled and snapped at them, driving the half-seen creatures back.

  Then came the sound of clicking. A faint, delicate noise that silenced Connor’s mother. One by one, the sets of eyes blinked out of existence.

  Rex’s growls faded, and he sat down again. His tail thumped on the pavement, and a moment later, a man appeared.

  It was the old man who lived in Mrs. Lavoie’s house. He held a small length of iron in his hand, and he smiled at Connor.

  “Hello,” the man said, giving a short bow to Rex and then a shorter one to Connor. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. My name is Hu Bayi, and you would be Connor Mann.”

  “Yes,” Connor said, nodding and asking. “How did you know?”

  Mr. Bayi smiled. “Your mother’s told me quite a bit about you.”

  Chapter 11: Hu and Connor, August 4th, 2016

  It had been over thirty years since Connor entered what had once been Mrs. Lavoie’s house.

  Not surprisingly, a great deal had changed.

  New appliances stood in the places where the old refrigerator and range top had been. Tiled floor covered the old wood, and a chandelier had replaced the light fixture. Where small houseplants had once lined the sill of the kitchen window, there was only a small statue of a dog. It looked as though it was made of metal, the hair and the face bearing the intricate carvings Connor had always associated with China and the Far East. The house no longer smelled of the pork pies Mrs. Lavoie had been fond of making, but was instead filled with the lingering scent of fragrant spices.

  Connor, and Hu, as the older man preferred to be called, sat at a small dining table. Rex was asleep at Connor’s feet. The refrigerator hummed and a clock on the wall ticked away the time at a steady, comforting pace.

  Connor had accepted a glass of water from Hu but declined the first offer of beer. He had never had alcohol before, and he wasn’t sure a stranger’s house was the best place to try it.

  And Connor was afraid he might end up liking it too much, as his father did.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” Hu asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Connor replied, adding, “I’ve never actually been around anyone as they smoked.”

  “If it bothers you,” the older man said, getting up from his seat, and going to a cabinet, “please let me know.”

  “I will,” Connor answered, watching as Hu brought down a small, dark wooden box. From it, the man removed a long, dull white pipe that looked similar to the one Gandalf smoked in the Lord of the Rings movies. Hu withdrew a small leather pouch and a lighter. He returned to the table with all three items.

  “This,” Hu said, holding up the pipe after he had taken his seat again, “was a gift from a British officer I studied with. It is called a churchwarden pipe. Up until a few years ago, he was kind enough to send me some excellent tobacco for it. Unfortunately, he passed away. No one in America seems to sell it, and I can’t find anyone willing to ship it to me. I have to make do with what I can find here, in New England.”

  Connor didn’t know what to say in response, but it seemed as though one wasn’t necessary. Hu opened the leather pouch, removed some tobacco and packed the bowl of the pipe down with his thumb. The smell of the dark, shredded leaves was familiar, and it took Connor only a moment to realize that the scent of the tobacco was what he had smelled upon entering the home.

  After Hu had gotten the pipe going and put the lighter down, he exhaled a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. He smiled at Connor around the stem and said, “Now, I suppose you have some questions for me?”

  Connor nodded, cleared his throat and asked, “What did you mean when you said that my mother spoke to you about me?”

  “I meant exactly what I said,” Hu responded, his voice gentle but firm. “You heard her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Connor whispered. His mind was still numb from the experience.

  “I have heard her as well,” Hu continued. “I moved into this house twenty years ago. During that time, I have walked through the cemetery, and around it, quite often. Your mother and others have reached out to me. They speak about what has occurred, and why they are still there.”

  Connor’s hands trembled, and he slipped them under his thighs, pressing them down against the hard wood of the chair.

  “They spoke to you,” Hu said in a low voice. “Will you tell me what they said?”

  “My mother said she was hungry,” Connor answered, his voice nothing more than a hushed whisper. “I don’t know what she meant. How can she be hungry? She’s dead.”

  His breath shuddered as the last word passed his lips.

  “The dead are often hungry,” the older man said, giving Connor a moment of silence to compose himself. “I do not know what your mother hungers for. While their appetite may often stay along a broad theme, there are particulars to each individual ghost.”

  “Why did she become a ghost?” Connor whispered.

  “You will learn soon enough,” Hu said, “but for now, I will tell you how she became a ghost. I must ask you a painful question.”

  “Okay,” Connor whispered.

  “When your mother died,” Hu said, “did you see anything strange? Out of place before or after?”

  “Before,” Connor answered, “and during.”

  “What did you see?” Hu asked, leaning forward, the pipe held in his hands and forgotten.

  Connor closed his eyes and said, “A fox. But it wasn’t right. There was something wrong with it. Like it wasn’t really there.”

  “Ah,” Hu said with a sigh.

  When Connor opened his eyes, he saw Hu lighting his pipe. A grim look was on the man’s face, and when he put the lighter down, he let out a stream of smoke from his lips.

  “It is as I long suspected,” Hu said. “Your mother was slain by a mèiguǐ, also known as a trickster ghost. One who can trasnform into animals.”

  “A what?” Connor asked, confused.

  “A hungry ghost,” Hu replied, “and like her killer, she is starving.”

  Chapter 12: A Conversation, August 4th, 2016

  Connor felt physically miserable, and mentally drained. He had his hands wrapped around a tea cup as he stared listlessly at Hu.

  The smell of the tobacco was pleasant as smoke curled up from the dark rim of Hu’s pipe. After a moment, he removed the pipe stem from his mouth and said, “I suppose you are confused about all of this?”

  Connor thought that was the understatement of the century.

  “Yes,” Connor said, sighing, “you could say that.”

  Hu nodded, puffed on his pipe shortly, and then, with smoke coming from his mouth and nose, said, “China has a long tradition of ghosts, as it does for a great many different items. But our ghosts are not as simple as Western ghosts. Your ghosts frighten you, and at times attack, but they are, in the end, only ghosts.”

  “A ghost is just a ghost, isn’t it?” Connor asked, confused.

  Hu shook his head. “Not in China. In China there are a great many typ
es of ghosts, and the one that seems to have been imported here, to Pine Grove Cemetery, is the èguǐ, the hungry ghost.”

  Connor put the teacup down on the table and said, “What does that even mean? What are they hungry for? Seriously, Hu, I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “I know that you do not.” Hu said, a note of anger creeping into his voice. “Please listen, Connor. I am attempting to tell you.”

  Connor pushed himself deeper into his chair and remained silent as Hu continued.

  “When a Chinese individual is murdered, or their family has treated them shamefully, or if they are wicked,” Hu said, “there is a good chance they will become a hungry ghost. This applies to those who were consumed by some passion in life as well. Someone who was gluttonous, or filled with greed, a person whose thoughts were enthralled with lust. All of these could lead to an afterlife of hunger. Death did not sate their desires. Instead, it magnified them.”

  Hu looked at Connor to see if he understood what was being said.

  “But, my mom wasn’t Chinese,” Connor said, “and neither was Mrs. Lavoie. German and French-Canadian, respectively.”

  Hu inclined his head once and said, “I know, but there is a curious phenomenon that has been noticed, at least amongst the Chinese ghost-hunters. Those slain by our dead are affected as if they were native born. Do you follow me so far?”

  Connor nodded and Hu took up the lesson once more.

  “There are many different types of hungry ghosts,” Hu said. “Some can take the form of animals, such as mèiguǐ, or there are the wǎngliǎng-guǐ, who can join themselves to rocks and trees.”

  “How can that even happen?” Connor asked, unable to shake his confusion. “I mean, ghosts here, in the States and Europe, they don’t do that.”

  “It is a question of belief,” Hu responded. “Look at your religion. When you die, you go to one of three places.”

  He ticked them off on his fingers as he said, “Heaven, Hell or Purgatory. For us, we await rebirth, or we are sent to various hells of our own devising. Not so for a western man or woman. There seems to be a general consensus as well in regards to what a ghost can or cannot do. The Germans have their poltergeists, and those of Celtic stock have an impressive variety as well. But the modern westerner is as mundane with his afterlife as he was with his life. So, when we boil it down, it is belief and culture.”

  Connor shook his head with disbelief. “Are you telling me someone can will themselves to be a certain type of ghost?”

  “Of course,” Hu said, “if the spirit is strong enough. I have read of such cases here in America. The internet is a source of wonder at times. There was, for a short while, a husband and wife team from New Hampshire, the Roys, I believe, who spoke of people who were able to remain after death.”

  Connor didn’t believe everything Hu told him, but he kept the opinion to himself, feeling the older man wouldn’t receive it well.

  “Why is my mother still around?” Connor asked, his voice small.

  “She must have had a hunger,” Hu said gently. “From what little I have gathered from your mother, she made a poor choice, trying to acquire a birthday gift for you. It was a small act of theft, the most miniscule portion of greed that caused her to remain hungry after her death. I suspect Feng had some large part in her fall. He is a persuasive speaker.”

  Connor shuddered at the memory of his mother's death, and at the idea that her imprisonment was a result of her desire to make him happy on his birthday.

  “So,” Connor asked, fighting back a wave of depression, “not everyone who is killed by a hungry ghost becomes one?”

  “No,” Hu replied, “it is rare, in fact. But it seems as though these particular ghosts have a sense for kindred spirits, if you will pardon the pun.”

  As Hu paused to relight his pipe Connor asked, “Why do they want me?”

  Hu shrugged his shoulders. “That is a question for which I have no answer. Not yet. My concern right now, Connor, is that we take great care from here on out. The dead have taken an interest in you. I do not know how many ghosts are in Pine Grove, or how many of them can be classified as hungry. But I do know you are their primary concern, which, in turn, makes you mine.”

  “Why?” Connor asked.

  “Because,” Hu said, the line of his jaw hard with determination, “I don’t want you to die.”

  Connor didn’t disagree.

  Chapter 13: The Priest, June 7th, 1979

  The sun was warm on his face and hands, the black fabric of his suit absorbing the light and warming him pleasantly. Robins sang in the trees, and a pair of squirrels chased one another across the street, up one side of an elm tree and down the other before they vanished from view.

  The Priest smiled and hummed an old marching tune his father had been fond of.

  When he reached the end of Adams Street, he turned left, past the Mann house and on towards Cushing Avenue. This he followed to the first entrance of Pine Grove Cemetery and made his way in. The air smelled of lilacs and freshly cut grass.

  The Priest’s smile broadened as he caught the scent of turned earth and paused to look for a new grave.

  Near the far fence, across from the Mann’s house, he saw a pile of dirt, an empty hole beside it. Evidently, the grave-diggers had paused in their work.

  Perhaps for coffee, the Priest thought as he changed direction.

  The grave occupied all of his attention, as they often did.

  He had no great love for baptisms, and he found he despised performing the sacrament of marriage. But that of Extreme Unction, one of the Last Rites, thrilled him. The knowledge that he might well be the last person seen before the dying penitent went to their judgment thrilled him.

  The Priest squatted down beside the unoccupied grave and stared down at it. Soon a coffin would be lowered into the ground. Mourners would stand and weep and gnash their teeth, rend their clothes and beat upon their breasts.

  He wished he could offer them some peace of mind, let them know that their loved one would not be in the ground alone.

  No, the Priest thought, reaching into the inner pocket of his suitcoat, not alone at all.

  He removed a cigarette case. It was made from aluminum, the metal cut from the fuselage of a German fighter plane, an Me 109 his father had seen shot down in France.

  The case, while it held a certain sentimental value to the Priest, carried something far more precious within it.

  With a pleased sigh, he opened the cigarette case and looked at the beads within. There were one hundred of them. Dark brown and smooth, with a hole bored all the way through each. They had once been strung along a thin red cord, but the Priest had severed it. Each was far more effective alone.

  At least, for his purposes.

  The Priest selected one, rolled it between his fingers, and enjoyed the graceful texture of the bead. He smiled, leaned forward, and dropped the bead into the grave. It fell with a thud, much louder than an object its size should have made, and the Priest gave a chuckle.

  Yes, he thought, it will serve admirably.

  The Priest stood up, closed the cigarette case, and returned it to the safety of his inner pocket. He wondered who might interact with it first. The seventh month was drawing nearer, and someone was bound to see it.

  The Priest looked out at Hill Street and saw Mrs. Mann step out onto her porch. She noticed him and waved, he did the same. His smile transformed itself into a grin. There were three members of the Mann family. Husband, wife, and child.

  Perhaps, if the Priest was lucky, it would be one of them.

  God willing, the Priest thought, God willing.

  Chapter 14: With Hu, August 5th, 2016

  “Can we free my mother?” Connor asked. He had regained some small measure of composure, but the idea of his mother trapped as a ghost had rattled him.

  Hu hesitated before he responded. “Yes. But it will not be easy.”

  Connor waited for the man to clarify the statement.r />
  At last, Hu turned away from the window and returned to the table.

  “There are a great many ways to free a ghost,” Hu began, “and some work for all, while others only work for a few. In your mother’s case, we must deal with the hungry ghost who has trapped her.”

  “Okay,” Connor said, “how do we do that?”

  “I am hopeful,” Hu said, “that we will only need to find that ghost.”

  “Hopeful?” Connor asked. “What do you mean by that? Is there something else? Something more that we might need to do?”

  Hu nodded. “There is a chance.”

  “What?” Connor said, trying to keep the question from sounding too demanding.

  “Connor,” Hu said, “there is a strong chance that there is someone who is controlling the hungry ghost.”

  Connor opened his mouth to respond, closed it, and then shook his head. “I don’t understand. How in God’s name can someone control a ghost?”

  Hu tapped the ashes out of the pipe’s bowl into a small ashtray. When he had finished, he gave Connor a tight smile and said in an apologetic tone, “I don’t know.”

  Connor didn’t know why the answer took him by surprise, but it did.

  “I wish I had an answer for you in that regard,” Hu continued, “but I confess myself as little more than a novice in the area of ghosts. I grew up with folklore and myths. I know what is supposed to help keep a ghost out of my house, and what my ancestors did to protect themselves. Beyond that, I am a student, and I have discovered that there are few hard and fast rules when it comes to ghosts in general. Your father, I trust, still has the doors and windows protected with iron?”

  “Um, yeah,” Connor said, “on the first floor.”

  “Iron is crucial to keeping the dead at bay,” Hu said. “And salt as well. Dogs are excellent deterrents. The hungry dead will not cross them. They fear them.”

  “What else?” Connor whispered. “What else works?”

  “I don’t know,” Hu confessed, “but if we’re going to help your mother, we need to learn, don’t you agree?”