by J. S. Malcom
“So, what exactly happens here?”
“We'll get to that,” Martha says. “First, we should discuss the terms of our agreement.”
I burn my mouth on my tea, since I thought those were understood before driving down here. “Which parts weren’t clear?”
Martha gets up, goes to one of her kitchen drawers and returns with a manila folder. She sits down again. “Well, I had my attorney draw something up, just in case. A personal liability waiver, essentially.”
My mind flashes back to mere weeks ago when a group of particularly spirited—pun intended—group of poltergeists punched a few holes in the walls of a client’s house. First when they tried to clobber me with an iron skillet, and then later when they hurled a chef's knife at my face. Time for me to head out.
“I'm sorry,” I say, “but I can't always guarantee there won't be property damage. Maybe you can find someone else to—”
Martha's eyes widen. “Oh, no. I wasn't concerned about my property. These papers merely state that, should you be injured while performing your, um, tasks, you won't seek financial restitution.”
Not exactly comforting, but this lady has no idea what I've dealt with. “Is that it?”
Martha nods. “That's it. No different than the kind of arrangement you might have with someone working on your roof or taking down a tree. Normally, I wouldn’t hire someone without sufficient insurance. My attorney says your business isn't licensed or insured.”
I nod and say, “I'm just getting around to it. My business is fairly new.” By which I mean it never occurred to me that I should have a license or insurance. Besides, who can afford those things?
“On the other hand, my research indicates that you’re effective at getting results.”
“What kind of research?”
Martha's cheeks flush a little. “Yelp.”
I have a Yelp rating? Cool. I’ll Google myself later. “It's always nice when clients leave reviews,” I say, trying to sound like it happens frequently.
“They speak quite highly of you,” Martha says. “Which is why I called. But if you don’t mind…”
Martha slides the folder my way and I have a look. Actually, her lawyer did a nice job of keeping things simple. Just one paragraph clearly stating that, by signing, I agree not to sue anyone if I get hurt while providing services on the premises. Plain English for the most part, with minimal legalese. There is one other part I’m not so happy about. Despite having discussed my terms with Martha on the phone, the contract also states that I won’t be paid until I “successfully eradicate the unseen source creating disturbances at this location.” I can tell the lawyer struggled with that phrasing a bit, but fine. There’s not enough legalese in the world to create a ghost clause.
“So, this part,” I say, once I finish reading. “As we discussed on the phone, I get paid in advance. Cash only.”
“Yes, we did discuss that,” Martha says. “And I apologize, but my attorney thought it prudent to proceed in a different manner.”
I chew at the inside of my lip while I think, a little pissed off, but not blaming Martha entirely. After all, she’s a widow living alone. More than likely, her lawyer is simply trying to protect her interests. Also, my rent is due next week.
“I don’t know…” I say.
Martha keeps her eyes on mine. “From what I gathered, you don’t have much to worry about. My understanding is that you’re quite good at what you do.”
Okay, message received. In other words, if I truly stand behind what I claim I can do, then where’s the problem? Yeah, okay. Challenge accepted.
I sign the waiver and slide it back across the table. “So, Martha,” I say. “Tell me what’s been going on.”
“A lack of respect for boundaries, primarily.” Martha fixes me with a serious gaze, as if I must know what that means. Unfortunately, boundaries and me have a long and nebulous history. After all, I’ve been known to walk around without a body.
“What kinds of boundaries?”
Martha takes another sip of her tea. “All kinds. Let me ask you, Cassie. Have you ever had the feeling someone is having fun at your expense?”
I shrug. “Sure, I guess.”
What I really mean is, define “fun.” Does that include someone blasting an image of your face into the sky while hoping to hunt you down? I'm pretty sure Vintain had fun with that at the time. I sure miss that guy.
“Well, that's what keeps happening here,” Martha says. “My take on it is that whatever resides in this house derives a certain perverse pleasure in, well, pushing my buttons.”
I nod knowingly, displaying my seasoned supernatural cleaning services expression. After all, I've done this four or five times now. And, damn, I have Yelp reviews already. “Can you be a little more specific?”
Martha checks her watch. “Now that it's past nine, almost definitely. It usually starts in the living room.”
Without further explanation, Martha gets up from the table. I follow her back down the hall to the living room. We passed it on the way to the kitchen before and I glanced in to see just what I expected, a large and tastefully decorated front room. Now, it appears that things have changed a little. No biggie, as far as hauntings go, but every painting in the room now hangs tipped at a dramatic angle. As in, yes, askew.
CHAPTER 3
It turns out that, due to her snooping, Martha knows I like to work unsupervised. It wasn’t like she didn’t try to hang around, but after a bit of nudging she admitted to already knowing about my methods. Her phrasing, not mine. I don’t really have methods, exactly. At least not any that work consistently. Each supernatural situation is unique. All I can do is put out some feelers, try to figure out what I’m dealing with, and then deal with it. So far, I have an excellent track record. As in, all wins and no losses.
In fact, according to Yelp—which I check as soon as Martha pulls out of the driveway—I’m “an extraordinary individual with true gifts who gave us our home back when we’d nearly lost hope.” The quote comes from Frank and Gail Barwin. I totally knew it was going to be those guys. I just had a feeling about it, given the insane level of paranormal activity I managed to clear from their home. Four poltergeists, a psycho kitty, and a homicidal maniac. Mommy Dearest, in this case. Although I couldn’t bring myself to tell Frank and Gail about the axe murders that took place in their house. Instead, I made up some stuff about negative lingering emotional energy, and kept ladling on more woo-woo sauce until they started yawning, which I took as my cue to leave.
Anyway, Martha Sanders says that the entity in her house knows just how to bug the crap out of her. Signing that waiver made me expect something way more threatening, but whatever is camped out here just likes to mess with Martha’s stuff. Apparently, it used to mess with her husband’s stuff too, but he wasn’t nearly as organized as Martha (which I took to mean fussy). When whoever or whatever it is didn’t get enough of a rise out of the now deceased Lawrence Sanders, it turned its energy toward Martha.
As for the particulars, the entity mixes the good silverware with the daily flatware, as well as the fine china and the kitchen dishes. Good heavens! It also likes to dump things out—on the counters, in the refrigerator, within the cabinets, places like that. The items include boxes of pasta, bags of rice, cereal and other things like that. It also has a longstanding habit of pouring liquor onto the floor in front of the liquor cabinet. Particularly brandy for some reason.
One part I’m pretty sure Martha hesitated to share was that the entity also likes to mess with her underwear. It leaves fruit in her bras—usually apples or oranges, but pears will do in a pinch—as well as vegetables in her panties. What kind of statement the thing is trying to make, I can’t imagine, but I had a hell of a time keeping a straight face. Honestly, I couldn’t wait for her to leave so I could see what I’m up against. I mean, whether it’s a ghost, demon or something else remains to be seen, but one thing is for sure. It definitely has a sense of humor.
Once I’m on my own, I walk through a few rooms extending the range of my supernatural perceptions. I think I’d know by now if I was dealing with something other than a ghost, but I give it a few minutes just to be sure. I definitely don’t get that edgy feeling I always get around demons. It would seem that Martha’s house is plain and simply haunted. And, in my experience, the best way to gain the attention of an attention-seeking ghost is to simply ignore it. They really hate that. But ignoring a ghost takes time, and time for them can be way different than it is for us. Ten minutes, a month, what’s the difference after the clock stops ticking for you?
So, I decide on another course of action. I go back into the living room and, one by one, carefully straighten each of the crooked paintings. I heighten the effect by cheerfully whistling the entire time. By the time I’m done, I’m even annoying myself.
After that, I go back into the kitchen and take a peek inside Martha’s pantry. Oh, good, the woman has a few vices. One of them being store-baked chocolate chip cookies. No Chips Ahoy for her, or for me as it turns out. I grab a few, not worried if she notices them missing. I’ll just blame the ghost. I microwave what remains of my tea and hang out at the table stuffing my face.
Maybe fifteen minutes pass before I hear a faint scraping sound coming through the walls. I’m pretty sure I hear something else too. I listen more closely, once again expanding my supernatural radar. Yep, there’s no doubt about it. I hear a woman chuckling. I go into the living room and, there she is, plain as day. She must have been about the same age as Martha when she died, maybe a little younger, so late fifties is my guess. She’s stocky, wearing a pale gray dress of coarse fabric, a white apron and a white bonnet. She stands with her torso tipped at an angle, her hip cocked, one eye closed, and the other squinting as she tilts a painting with one hand and clutches a crystal decanter in the other.
“Much better,” she says. Then she bursts out laughing and staggers back. She takes a long pull from her decanter, half the time missing her mouth. Golden-brown liquid dribbles down her face, presumably ghost brandy.
This is a phenomenon I've encountered many times. Apparently, ghosts manifest what they imagine being part of their reality. Which answers a question I've heard posed before. Namely, why do ghosts wear clothes? After all, their clothes didn't die along with them. Of course, it's because ghosts imagine themselves being dressed.
As for right now, I appear to be facing a ghost manifesting a serious buzz. She staggers sideways, making her way to another frame on the wall, this time a mirror. She thinks about that for a moment, then cackles and gives it a tip. When she catches sight of my reflection, she spins around and lurches my way. We're nearly nose to nose when she starts making faces, distorting her mouth and waggling her eyebrows in a comically exaggerated fashion. She’s having so much fun that I almost hate bursting her bubble. Still, that’s why I’m here.
“Um, why are you doing that?”
The ghost’s mouth drops open in shock.
“See, now there's an expression that makes sense,” I say.
She blinks at me several times as if trying to focus. “You can't possibly see me.”
Yeah, she’s totally hammered. “Don't be an idiot. Of course I can see you.” To underscore my point, I reach out and tweak her nose.
She jumps back at that one—both at the shock of being touched and because a little jolt of magic arced at my fingertips. That effect happens pretty much automatically around ghosts. It means I'm powering up to open the veil.
It takes her a few moments to recover. “Who are you?” she says. “How did you get in here?”
“It seems like you got that backwards,” I say. “I was hired to find out who you are. As well as why you’re still here. I’m guessing it’s been a while.”
The ghost drunkenly sways from side to side as she processes my questions. She lowers her head and squints at me. “My name’s Dorothy. I used to work here.”
Her response takes me by surprise. One thing that’s nearly always consistent with ghosts is a high level of denial. They almost never speak of themselves in the past tense. “When?”
Dorothy tips the bottle back, her throat working as she glugs down more spectral booze. She burps.
I try again. “Dorothy. When did you work here?”
“I don’t know. A hundred years ago? Something like that. Why?”
I have to admit, she’s throwing me off my game. It’s just not supposed to work this way. “Well, because that means you’re dead. You do understand that, right?”
Dorothy staggers toward another painting, which she tilts dramatically. “There, that’s better.”
“Dorothy?”
She spins around. “Are you still here?”
“Yes, I’m still here. Dorothy, you do realize you’re dead, right?”
Dorothy shrugs. “Sure, I guess. What’s it to you?”
On one level, she does have a point. At the same time, she’s clearly dedicated herself to being a pain in the ass. I go at it from a different angle. “Let me ask you this: If you know you’re dead, why do you stay here?”
Dorothy lets out a bitter laugh. “Why do I stay here, she wants to know.”
I’m not sure who she thinks she’s talking to, but it’s still just the two of us. I wait, and a moment later, Dorothy continues.
“The reason I’m still here,” she says. “Is because I feel like staying. Isn’t that enough of an answer?”
“Not really,” I say. “This isn’t your house, for one thing.”
Dorothy tips her head back and laughs. “Do you think I care one bit about whose house this is? Let me tell you something, missy. I worked my backside off in this house. Thirty years! Sunup to sundown. One day, I died in this house. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready.”
That little arc I felt before was nothing compared to what I feel now. My body thrums with magical current, my arms tingling and my hands heating up. I’m in full ghost-ejection mode. All I have to do is give Dorothy a shove. Supernaturally speaking, that is. Still, I think of my sister, Autumn, and I try to be nice.
“Maybe it’s time to think about leaving,” I say. “I can help if you let me.”
Dorothy cocks her head, then staggers toward me again. She’s a bull of a woman—and even dead she’s fairly threatening. She waves the decanter back and forth in front of my face. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I like it here. I sleep when I want to. I get up when I want to. And I never, ever, run out of booze. This is a far cry from what my life was like. So, as far as I’m concerned, this is my house now. Who’s going to stop me?”
Okay, that’s it. This chick is just an asshole. “Me,” I say. “I’m a veil witch. It’s what I do.”
I thrust my hands out, my palms cradling a shimmering orb. I expect Dorothy’s eyes to widen as she makes the connection, but the significance of what’s about to happen is lost on her.
“Well, isn’t that impressive,” she says. “Did I tell you I can light my farts on fire? I’ll show you some time.”
Okay, that’s it. This interview is over. I’m about to hurl the orb at her when something catches my eye. For just an instant, I could swear I see a smoky shape swirl through that mirror. At the same time, my hands are on fire. I’ve never held back when it gets to this point. I jerk my eyes away from the mirror, thinking it had to be a trick of the light. I launch the orb, which starts to expand, its shimmering glow brightening as the veil opens. Suddenly, the veil closes again, that gap collapsing back into an orb. A moment later, it winks out altogether. My hands go cold, my arms stop tingling and the heat in my chest dissipates.
Seeing my expression, Dorothy bursts out laughing. “Well, okay then,” she says, waving her bottle back and forth. “Looks like I'm due for a refill.”
She stumbles toward the hallway and I thrust out my hands again, aiming squarely at her broad backside. I light up another orb. In that same instant, from the corner of my eye, I could swear I see another shadowy form swirl up in that mirror.
Then my second orb sputters out.
“What the fuck?” I didn't mean to say it out loud, but obviously I did since Dorothy spins around and grins at me. She lets out a deep throaty laugh.
“Having a hard time there, sister?” She gestures with her decanter. “Maybe you should have a drink. It will help you relax.”
With that, she totters off down the hall muttering, “Veil witch, my ass.”
She bursts out laughing again, the sound of her derision rising in pitch as she enters the kitchen. Meanwhile, I remain where I stand, looking around to see if any shadows start moving.
CHAPTER 4
“Seriously, it just closed? You must have done something,” Autumn says.
I’m sitting at my kitchen table, still waking up after a crappy night’s sleep and wishing I’d stocked up on coffee. I almost didn’t pick up when Autumn called, but I’ve been secretive enough lately. The least I could do is tell her about this latest development in my increasingly strange life.
“What does that even mean, I must have done something? You know how it works. You corner a ghost, make a decision, and you get all tingly. Then the freaking veil opens. You barely have to think about it.”
A pause and then Autumn says, “Shit, maybe you're losing your powers.”
Does she sound a little smug? She doesn't, right? Autumn can be a little competitive, but she's not that competitive. I gesture to one of my cabinets and the door opens. I float a mug down to the counter. Phew. Now if I just had some coffee to pour into it.
“No, I'm not losing my powers. I can't lose my powers. I'm a witch. I was born with powers.”
That's true, right? I mean, no one has ever said that, exactly, but it's been more or less implied. You can't be a witch and not have some kind of magic. A witch without magic is just, well, a person.
“Okay, good. You had me scared there for a second.”
Autumn sounds genuinely relieved. I'm such an asshole sometimes. The little voice inside whispers, Therapy. Seriously, think about it.
