by M. V. Stott
It was too much. The pain, the feeling of being pulled apart, I couldn’t concentrate.
But no—
No—
Had to concentrate—
Ignore the agony, the fear, the instinct to just let it all go and for the light to switch off.
I had to concentrate on one thing and one thing alone. Push that forward. Give it to them. Let them have it.
‘Take it!’ I yelled.
I felt the weight leave me, and I smiled. Somehow, through all the pain, I smiled. I may even have started laughing.
‘Now!’ I said, or thought, I wasn’t really sure. ‘Take what is yours! Take it all!’
The ground trembled and the energy bursting from the standing stones crackled and died. I fell to the dirt on my side, the cold grass against my face as I twitched, at the mercy of my frazzled nerves.
‘What is this?’ asked Elga.
I pulled air into my lungs as I weakly pushed myself up onto my feet.
‘Oh,’ said Eva, who looked at me dumbfounded. ‘Oh, you absolute motherfucker.’
‘What? What did I just miss?’ asked Maya.
‘Oh you total and utter motherfucker!’ said Eva.
‘You know it,’ I said.
Elga was gripping her chest. ‘Take it back! I do not accept it! Take it back!’
‘Yeah, no give backsies,’ I said and staggered out of the circle as the ground inside began to crack. I fell to my knees, Eva kneeling to help me.
‘You’re an idiot,’ she said.
‘I know.’
It was the fox that gave me the idea.
I had a debt. A soul that was being fought over by a group of demons. A group of demons that were eager for my death so that one of them could snatch the prize.
‘What has he done?’ asked Maya, staring at the circle as grey smudges with burning red eyes began to seep out of the ground.
‘He tricked them,’ said Eva.
All those demons owed, and only one soul. I drove to the well and I climbed down and I offered them an alternative. Thirty souls. Enough for them all to have a little fun. The best part? They could claim what they were owed right away. No need to try and fight against the others, or attempt to expedite death. The things taking on the debt were already, in most ways, dead.
The souls were ready for the taking as soon as the debt was accepted.
Maya’s eyes widened as Eva filled her in. She looked from me, then to the circle, as the demons tore out what was theirs and dragged the screaming souls down into hell, the vessels they’d been in crumbling to dust at last. Dead. Empty. Defeated.
It had been a risk.
No, a bit more than a risk. I really hadn’t known how it would go. A big part of me assumed I’d never walk out of the circle. That they would drain me dry and I’d die, having given them all that power that waited for me in the Dark Lakes.
But no.
I’d only gone and bloody well pulled it off.
I smiled up at Eva, whose face was fighting between impressed and really shitting annoyed.
‘Go team coven,’ I said.
Then high-fived myself like a really cool idiot.
Then blacked out.
29
I was in no shape to do anything for the next few days, let alone work. Lucky for me, I’d already phoned in sick, so it was no stretch to keep that going for a little while longer.
Eva remained pissed at me. On the one hand, I had just done something fairly awesome: gotten rid of the debt on my soul, and destroyed a super powerful, zombie-looking death cult that were days from breaking free of their prison and raining hell down upon the county, the country, the whole world.
On the other hand, I hadn’t told her the truth.
I kinda thought the first one massively outweighed the other, but in the days since the circle had fallen, I hadn’t heard diddly squat from her, and every message I sent remained unanswered.
Four days later I limped into the reception of Carlisle Hospital to take my first shift since, you know, saving the world.
‘Joe, either you’ve set yourself up as a pimp or your leg is fucked,’ said Big Marge as I approached the desk at a slow hobble.
‘I’m afraid there aren’t many openings for a pimp in Cumbria,’ I replied, smiling. ‘I just fell down the stairs.’
‘You live in a flat. A flat doesn’t have any stairs.’
‘I know, that’s the weird thing.’
Big Marge raised an eyebrow, then went back to the magazine she’d been reading. ‘Glad you’re better. There’s something awful needs mopping in the ladies on the second floor. Something devastating.’
Ah, it was good to be back.
Well, it was, until a few hours later, when I walked into a corridor on my way to shove a fist full of coins into the vending machine, only to find Dr Neil and Detective Martins stood together in deep conversation.
‘Shit,’ I muttered. Those were the last two people I wanted to see.
Apart from the Red Woman. Or some horror movie style sudden reappearance of Elga, her bony hand bursting out of the ground in a surprise-fucker! jump scare ending.
I tried to change course, only for the door behind me to bang closed and draw their attention.
Looks like I used up all my luck in that stone circle.
‘Mr Lake,’ said Detective Martins, walking over to me. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve anything new to tell me about the disappearance of Chloe Palmer?’
I bowed my head and sighed.
‘Just tell us where she is!’ demanded Dr Neil. ‘I know you’ve got something you’re not telling us!’
‘This is your last chance, Lake,’ said Martins. ‘Your last chance to tell me something useful and make things easier on yourself. Tell me where Chloe Palmer is.’
‘Um, I’m sort of, over here.’
To say all three of our faces were slack with amazement as we turned to see Chloe stood before us was something of an understatement.
‘Chloe?’ said Dr Neil.
‘Yeah. Who’s that?’ she asked, pointing at Martins.
‘My…’ Martins coughed and straightened his tie, trying to put his gruff, snake eyed demeanor back in place. ‘My name is Detective Martins.’
‘Ah, right, I was meaning to come in to the station and put your fears to rest.’
‘Chloe, where have you been?’ asked Dr Neil.
‘I know, I know, dick move to just ghost out on you like that, but I was so tired of the pressure of this job. Of my life. And, actually, so sick of you, you boring, dumb piece of shit. Oh, I couldn’t wait to get away from you, you Casper-looking motherfucker.’
I tried to swallow back the smirk that was fighting its way out of my mouth.
I completely failed.
‘Detective Martins, I’m sorry, I took myself away for a few days, and I meant to text work to let them know, and just completely forgot. I’m so sorry for the trouble caused, I really had no idea.’
‘People have been trying to call you,’ he said.
‘I’ll bet, but I lost my phone. I’ve been camping. In Scotland.’
‘Scotland?’
‘Yup.’ She smiled and winked at me.
‘I’ve decided to live off the grid from now on. Just sick of all this modern shit, you know?’
‘I see,’ replied Martins, his voice emerging from between gritted teeth. ‘Mr Lake, you’re off the hook.’
‘Thank you. I did tell you,’ I said.
Martins grimaced at me, then left.
Eva was leaning against the side of the Uncanny Wagon, a can in her hand and a smoke between her lips.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Hm? What for?’ she replied.
‘For doing that. For being Chloe. Now she can disappear again and no one will think anything of it.’
‘Yeah. Well. You’re not the only one with good ideas.’
I smiled. ‘So it was a good idea?’
‘I never said that.’
‘You to
tally said that. Just then.’
Eva turned to look at me, scowling. ‘I was about to say that was the dumbest move you’ve ever pulled, but in all honesty, it’s not even close.’
‘But it worked. I couldn’t tell you. You wouldn’t have let me do it, and it was the only way.’
I climbed behind the wheel, Eva falling across the back seats, her feet sticking out of the open door window.
As I turned the key and the engine coughed into life, Eva patted me on the shoulder.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. Just… Malden would say thanks. And then probably go into some very dull story about his bowel movements. I’m going to miss those.’
I looked in the rearview. Eva smiled back at me. I don’t think I’d ever seen her smile at me with anything even close to affection before. The last thing I wanted to do now was ruin the moment.
‘You know, I think you’re starting to like me.’
Well, there we go, I went and ruined it.
I smiled, well, until a stick thwacked across the back of my head.
‘Oi!’
‘What. It’s my whacking stick. It’s a call back.’
‘What now?’ I said, rubbing at my sore head.
‘Call Maya.’
‘Why? Not more trouble?’
‘Nah. But I’m not getting pissed with just you. Drive on, idiot.’
I smiled and steered out of the hospital car park, the pub our destination.
The End.
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Ghosted: Fresh Hell
Here’s a SNEAK PEEK at the first Ghosted book, another series set in the Uncanny Kingdom universe…
“A skinned woman floating in a canal.
A demon on the loose.
Somebody has to take it down, and that somebody is me.
Just one problem... I’m already dead.”
1
It was half past midnight when the screaming started.
It came from the east bank of Regent’s Canal, not far from Camden Lock. The person who called it in said they’d heard a commotion outside their narrow boat and pulled back a curtain to find a figure running along the towpath, screeching at the top of their lungs. The witness said they couldn’t understand why the screamer was making such a racket; not until they slammed their palm against the boat’s porthole and painted it with a big, red handprint.
The victim didn’t have any skin.
They’d been flayed alive from head to toe, peeled like a prawn, yet somehow they still had it in them to be running barefoot—literally barefoot—alongside the canal.
The victim ran some more after that, but didn’t make it much farther before they took a tumble over the bank and toppled face-first into the water. It won’t shock you to learn that they were pronounced dead on arrival.
When I picked up the message from DCI Stronge that the Marine Policing Unit had fished a skinned corpse out of the drink, I took an interest right away. Things like this—bizarre, gruesome murders—they’re right in my wheelhouse. All my life I’ve had a preoccupation with the macabre: the creatures in the shadows, the lurkers beneath the floorboards, the monsters in the closet. Believe it or not, back in a past life I used to be an exorcist (although obviously I’d prefer if you did take my word for it, otherwise this story is going to be a really tough sell).
I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Jake Fletcher. I’m six-feet tall, I fill out a suit real nice and I’ve been told by more than one woman that I have—and I quote—“nice teeth.” Oh, and I’m dead. Dead as a doornail.
Now, don’t start giving me any, “Ghosts aren’t real, Jake,” bollocks, alright? You’re just gonna have to go with me on this. I’m dead, ghosts are legit, and Two Broke Girls is the nadir of human accomplishment. These are the facts. Deal with them.
Where was I again? Oh, right, me being an ex-exorcist.
You’re probably wondering how I wound up being an exorcist in the first place, right? I mean, it’s not exactly your run of the mill, garden variety profession. My school careers advisor had me pegged as a newspaper reporter or an English teacher, but I guess I was always destined to work with the dead. I was born with The Sight, you see, a special sensitivity to the Uncanny. No one knows how it works exactly—whether it’s a sixth sense, an overactive pineal gland, or just plain bad luck—but I have an ability to see the spirits of the dead. Ghosts, phantoms, spectres, whatever you want to call them, I can see the lot, and more besides. If I was to show you some of the “besides” that I’ve seen, you’d lock yourself in your house and soil yourself for seven days straight. It made for a challenging childhood—Jesus, it did—but it set me up great for a career evicting spooks.
I spent a good few years doing the exorcist thing, Screaming bible passages, waving burning sage about, cleansing haunted properties. That was until I died and became a spook myself. Yeah, I’m not blind to the irony. And don’t worry, I’m not the bad kind of ghost who makes the walls bleed and writes threatening messages in the condensation on your bathroom mirror. Honestly, I wouldn’t say boo to a goose, nor can I think of a single good reason for doing so.
Anyway, since I croaked, I’ve taken a bit of a U-turn on the whole “ghost rights” thing. Matter of fact, I’ve become something of an undead activist. Rights not rites, that’s what I say. Because I learned the truth. The real truth about the consequences of what I was doing as an exorcist. But we’ll get back to that later.
So… ghosts. Most of them end up marooned on the physical plane because they died a traumatic death and need closure to move on. Not me. I solved my murder – had my chance at the afterlife but passed it up. Well, that’s not entirely true. The truth is, I did a runner from the pearly gates. I didn’t feel I was ready to face the Big Man at that juncture, not after the life I’d lead. Not after the things I’d done. I had a feeling he wouldn’t be too quick to hand me a gold card to the exec lounge, not until I’d cancelled out the stuff I’d been up to while I was still alive. Of course, I hadn’t known then that I was up to no good, but something told me ignorance wasn’t going to earn me a pass.
So, I found my way back here, back to the physical realm. Now I live somewhere between the two worlds, tucked in the middle and out of sight, like a g-string up an arse crack. I move invisibly in this realm, a rumour drifting through a world of facts. Tell you what, let’s stick with that last one—the rumour/facts line—it’s got a bit more poetry to it than the arse crack thing.
So, you probably want to know how I wound up dead in the first place, right? Well, you know that expression, “Die young and leave a good-looking corpse”? I managed to get the “young” part right. The “good-looking corpse” part, that’s a whole other story. The quick version: I succeeded in pissing off the wrong person and ended up cut into four chunks, so... not exactly good-looking. Unless a horribly mashed up corpse gets your motor running, in which case, hey, I won’t judge you (actually, what am I talking about? Of course I will, that’s messed up).
Anyway, my death’s a story for another time – we’ve already got one sliced-up corpse bobbing in a canal, let’s not muddy the waters with another. The reason I mention it is to remind you that, as a bona-fide “goner,” I don’t have a body. Most of the time I do just fine without one, but seeing as I was about to meet with the police and they wouldn’t be able to see
me in my spook state, something needed doing. If I wanted to talk with DCI Stronge, I was going to have to make a stop first.
2
I found him sat in the booth of a late-night bar with his arm around a woman presenting enough chest to be charged with indecent exposure. He was ordering table service. Of course he was, he’d always been a wanker. His name was Mark Ryan and I’d known him since we were eleven years old. Since we were at school together.
We didn’t run in the same circles then. His circle was all sports trophies and hand jobs behind the bike sheds, while mine—thanks to him—was the kind of circle Dante wrote about. No matter what I did to avoid the guy, he’d always find a way to seek me out and give me shit: barging me into my locker, kicking footballs at me, tripping me over in the corridor. Boosting his ego at my expense. Mark Ryan was the first person to really make my life hell, and I’ve been closer to that place than most.
One time he bought a pair of handcuffs into class and manacled me to a radiator while the teacher was out of the room. Doesn’t sound so bad, right? Some people pay good money for that. Yeah, he over-tightened the things, but that was par for the course with a shit like Mark Ryan. Besides, that wasn’t what really hurt. The real hurt came when the heat from the radiator conducted through the cuff and into my bracelet. That was a new kind of pain. Mark and his crew did nothing to help me – just stood back and laughed, waggling the key at me as I thrashed around, howling in agony.
Even as a ghost, I still have the scar.
So yeah, Mark’s not exactly top of my friends list, which is why I decided to make him my designated meat puppet; the body I use whenever I need to pass for living. He’s like my toupee, except instead of hiding a bald spot, he hides the fact that I don’t have a physical form.
