Ghosts, Gears, and Grimoires

by Unknown

  Coincidence, Ethan thought. A summer storm come to break the heat.

  No earthbound spirit possessed enough potency to be able to summon the weather.

  “Who are you?” Ethan demanded.

  Mrs. Condon’s nephew began coughing, and a hot spurt of tainted blood sprayed out from his mouth to cover Ethan’s face. Wiping it clean with his shirtsleeve, Ethan watched helplessly as the man struggled for breath while blood poured from his lips onto the table. With a final death rattle, Mister Condon’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed face down—the force of his fall causing the glass table top to shatter.

  An eerie silence descended on the room, and even the untamed spirit of Mrs. Condon ceased her wordless screams. Ethan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  Then the man’s head began to shudder and a dark, cylindrical shape emerged from his blood-stained lips. It wasn’t until the thing had slithered its way completely out amongst the blood and broken glass that Ethan realized it was a snake.

  He leaped out of his chair and backed up against the wall as the creature reared up to reveal its fangs and began hissing.

  Well, that’s new.

  Another flash of light broke past the curtains, and, as the thunder followed, both the snake and Mrs. Condon’s spirit disappeared.

  What in all the seven hells is going on?!

  “An excellent question,” the voice blossomed in his mind along with the sudden appearance of the Banker’s apparition. “And one far more apt then you realize.”

  “You!” Ethan exclaimed. “Who…what are you?”

  The Banker smiled. “Please, Mister Carto, if you haven’t figured that out by now, then I may have seriously overestimated your worth.”

  * * *

  Over the years, Ethan Carto had been known as many things to many people, some pleasant, others disparaging, but, in all that time, he had never been considered a pious man. It had been nearly thirty years since he had last stepped foot in a church, and he had never previously felt the need to unburden his conscience with anything other than a bottle of bad whiskey and even worse company.

  This night’s events, however, quickly had him reassessing his position in regards to the place of the Divine in his life. There was nothing like encountering true darkness to make a man desperate enough to seek solace in the light. Did it matter, though, that Ethan sat in an empty church he had broken into and was clutching a set of rosary beads he had stolen from a dead man?

  Ethan did not really know who or what he expected to find in this hallowed place. Surely no archangel, no martyred saint, would care to sully their grace by extending the hand of salvation to a being as miserable as he. All his life, some small part of Ethan knew he was destined for damnation, but tonight he realized for the first time what that really meant.

  And he was frightened. Far more so than he had ever been before.

  “Is anyone there?” he asked hopefully, but no answer came.

  The silence, perhaps, was enough. He needed silence to quell the tumult raging in his mind. The Banker had told him things, shown him things. Things he would never be able to forget.

  Miranda…that poor girl.

  The deeds that the book, The Grimoire, the Banker had called it, had made her mother do. It was little wonder the woman’s tormented spirit wore the painful marks of her own sins.

  At first, he thought the Painted Woman to be a dangerous creature, but she was next to nothing compared to the prize she had him seek.

  “Some things are better left buried.” A gentle voice intruded into Ethan’s thoughts and he opened eyes he didn’t remember closing.

  Standing before him was the slightly luminescent spirit of the barefooted urchin he had first encountered in front of Zao’s gambling den. He had not realized it from the visions the Banker had presented to him—after all the girl’s face had been contorted with a potent mix of fear and agony—but this strange apparition wore the innocent face of Miranda Condon.

  “It’s you,” Ethan said quietly. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

  “Not quite,” the girl replied. “Miranda is…elsewhere now.”

  “Then who…?”

  “It’s not important, Mister Carto. Just remember that some things are better left buried.” And, with that, the girl’s apparition faded as quickly as it appeared.

  Ethan sat and ruminated in darkness and silence, his only companions his troubled thoughts and the stolen rosary clutched tightly in his grip. It wasn’t until the first few rays of sunlight began to creep their way through the window portraits of the saints, each one immortalized in colored glass, that he even remembered where he was.

  Deciding he had better excuse himself before the church’s custodian came in to discover him and the broken lock on the side door, Ethan walked out onto the street where a firm and calloused hand landed on his shoulder.

  “You’re a hard man to find,” the hand’s owner said. “Mister Zao wants another word.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take Ethan long to realize that it wasn’t Zao who had summoned him. Even in the cold light of day the gambling den’s main playing floor was typically full of drunken fools trying desperately to win back the fortunes they had lost overnight, but now, it was uncharacteristically empty. Broken chairs and shattered glass lay everywhere, and more than one pool of fresh blood stained the tables and floorboards. Yet Ethan’s musclebound escort barely noticed. Instead, his bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils announced the influence of the Painted Woman’s arts.

  The hallway leading to the private rooms did not seem to have fared much better than the main floor either. Where Zao’s courtesans once lounged, waiting to pounce on more-than-willing victims, there was now little more than the scorched and twisted remnants of couches which had been set ablaze. Judging by the brittle skeletons which littered the ashes, it was clear that not all of the women managed to escape whatever flames had raged through there.

  Stopping at the doorway to Zao’s own suite, the thug motioned for Ethan to enter, much as he had days previously. Except, this time, there was no velvet curtain left to draw back, and the scene inside was vastly different.

  All the room’s furnishings had been removed, save the single chair in the center of the space which held the barely-conscious form of Jing Zao. Stripped to the waist, his flesh was a maze of torn and bleeding flesh—each cut stylized to reflect the strange sigils which covered the floor, walls, and ceiling, every one seemingly painted in his own blood. The designs were remarkably similar to those which Ethan had witnessed Margery Condon create in the visions the Banker had shown him.

  “Mister Carto.” The Painted Woman was busy carving at Zao’s flesh with a wickedly-curved obsidian blade, but paused to greet him like one would an old friend. “I trust that you have my book in hand.”

  “Ahh…not quite…well…,” Ethan stumbled at first, until the spectral girl’s words came unbidden to his tongue. “Perhaps it is better left buried.”

  The Painted Woman stopped short, placing the blade onto the Bishop’s lap. “Indeed?” she asked as darkness filled her eyes, and the tattoos covering her skin began to writhe. “And perhaps you are best doing as you were told to.”

  “No.” Ethan said, swallowing hard.

  The Painted Woman flicked her wrist and a disembodied blow to Ethan’s stomach stole the breath from his lungs and brought him to his knees. “I beg your pardon, Mister Carto?”

  “No,” he said between gasps.

  Another flick of the wrist, this time accompanied by a series of blows about his chest and head. Ethan felt a wound open above his eye and hot blood blurred his vision, but behind the woman he could still make out the Banker’s apparition appear and begin whispering into the ear of a waking Zao.

  “Do you want to try that one last time, Mister Carto?”

  “I said no, Kisikil`lillake,” Ethan spat the name the Banker had given him as he struggled back to his feet. “You overstep yourself,
Forsaken One.”

  The amusement painted on her face drained in an instant. “How do you know that name?” she demanded.

  “Kisikil`lillake. Lilitu. Layil. Lillith,” With each name the Banker had shared, the Painted Woman recoiled. “The Grimoire is not meant for your hands, night hag.”

  The Painted Woman screamed in rage, the twisted drawings on her skin evaporating to dark wisps of smoke which launched themselves at Ethan like a plague of ethereal locusts. As each shadow touched his skin, it burnt with a cold, icy fire unlike anything he had ever felt before. The agony was excruciating, and Ethan struggled to keep his feet beneath him.

  “Perhaps my faith in you was misplaced, Mister Carto,” Kisikil`lillake said. “Perhaps you would make a better replacement for my pet here instead. This one is beginning to weaken too much anyhow.”

  The woman turned back to Zao, and appeared surprised to see him out of his chair and facing her with the obsidian blade in hand. Behind him, the Banker smiled and disappeared.

  “How’s this for weak, bitch?” Zao spat as he thrust the blade into her heart and twisted.

  * * *

  Some things are better left buried.

  For six years, the nightmares which plagued the man once known as Ethan Carto ended with this sentiment.

  Amongst the endless horrors and painful visions, it was hard to remember what those words meant anymore. It was hard to remember the man he once was.

  They all considered him crazy, called him a lunatic and a degenerate. Just another filthy beggar rambling on about demons and spirits. Mothers would steer their curious children away from him, and businessmen would cross the street just to avoid him.

  Once, this made him angry, made him want to lash out at all those misbegotten brats and pompous snits. The pictures in his thoughts were always so violent, so bloody, and it would be so easy to bring those images to fruition.

  Now, however, he was close enough to the end that he no longer cared.

  Some things might be better left buried, but still demanded to be found.

  For six long years, the man once known as Ethan Carto had forgotten nearly everything about himself. Everything, that is, but the idea of a certain book which haunted his dreams.

  Now, he was certain it was near, six feet beneath his feet hidden in the grave of a young girl whose name once meant something to him.

  “Remember, Mister Carto,” a gentle voice echoed in his fractured thoughts. “Some things are better left buried.”

  The apparition of the barefoot girl standing before him triggered something at the back of his mind, a hazy recollection he knew was important but couldn’t quite bring into focus. He tried for a moment to capture it, to remember what it was, but as a sudden crack of lightning lit up the night sky, the memory disappeared along with the girl.

  Shaking his head, he picked up the shovel he had liberated from the gravedigger’s shed and set to work exhuming the grave.

  Before him, a well-dressed apparition in a gray suit and bowler hat appeared. The figure began to laugh as lightning streaked overhead.

  Restless Spirit

  Rie Sheridan Rose

  “Good Lord! Is she serious?” Alistair let the ivory invitation card fall from his hand to the laboratory counter with a theatrical groan.

  Josephine Mann snatched up the heavy card and scanned it eagerly. “Oh…a séance! It sounds like such fun.”

  “Honestly, Jo? Don’t you start too,” he grumbled, shuffling through the rest of the post. “It’s bad enough that Mother believes she’s found herself a haunted house without you bolstering her delusions.”

  “Leonora is the least deluded person I have ever met. If she says there is a ghost in her house, then there is one.”

  “Ghosts do not exist.”

  “If you say so, Professor.” Her meek acquiescence was suspicious to say the least. The downcast eyes and murmuring tone didn’t fool him for a moment. Jo would keep bringing it up in casual conversation until he gave in. She was water to his rock…eventually, she always wore him down.

  Giving in to the inevitable, he sighed. “Oh, very well. We’ll go. It will give me a chance to prove to you once and for all what utter nonsense this entire business is.”

  “Alistair Conn, don’t you dare ruin your mother’s party!”

  “I am not a child, Jo. I won’t ruin anything. I will just observe…and perhaps run a few experiments to prove to you both that there is no such thing as the supernatural.” He bit his lip in thought, possible analytical devices dancing through his head.

  Josephine rolled her eyes, as she often did when they were talking—and not just about spiritualism. “Honestly, Alistair, sometimes science is not the answer. Sometimes, you just have to believe.” She flounced out of the laboratory, and he heard her mumble to herself, “Now, what will I wear…?” as she headed into the main boarding house.

  * * *

  The night of the séance was cold, with billowing castles of cloud playing hide and seek with the moon. Leonora Conn met them at the door to her new residence wearing black silk and lace, as if mourning a loved one. Alistair surreptitiously adjusted his topcoat over the detection instruments he had brought to the party.

  Josephine hugged Leonora—the two of them chattering like birds as they linked arms and moved into the house. Alistair followed, shaking his head.

  Looking around the residence, he had to admit that his mother had lovely taste. The décor was elegant yet inviting. Leonora led them into a parlor furnished in golden oak and burgundy velvet. There were several others gathered around the oval dining table, including his aunt Emily and sister Catherine. Leonora introduced them to her banker and his wife who waved a fan excitedly. “This is so fascinating!” the woman gushed. The couple rounded out the seated guests.

  “And this is Madame Mariscova,” Leonora murmured, hands on the shoulders of a slim woman in a gauzy gown leaving little to the imagination.

  Alistair was bemused to see Jo eyeing the dress thoughtfully. He hoped she wouldn’t insist on purchasing something of the kind. One never knew what would catch her fancy. Though, to be honest, life had never been dull since she became his research assistant—and, since he was being honest, perhaps something more.

  “She is to be our medium this evening,” Leonora continued.

  “I am very pleased to meet you,” said Mariscova softly, holding out a hand to him. Her voice was as smooth and rich as polished onyx. A small woman with a mass of black curls swept back from her heart-shaped face, she didn’t look like a lunatic. “Madame Leonora has told me much about both of you.”

  “I’ll bet she has,” he replied dryly.

  “Don’t be a spoilsport, Alistair.” Leonora linked her arm through Jo’s and sat her between Catherine and Madame Mariscova. “You sit there beside Emily, my boy.” Smoothing her skirts, she took her seat at the head of the table.

  “Isn’t this thrilling?” Aunt Emily whispered, her voice breathless as a girl’s. It took years off her age, as her sparkling eyes crinkled with excitement. “I haven’t had this much fun in ages!”

  Alistair hadn’t the heart to tell her it was all most likely chicanery. He just smiled and nodded.

  “Everyone, please, take hands around table,” Mariscova ordered, her voice slightly accented with some Slovakian nuance he couldn’t quite place. She leaned forward and lit the candles in an ornate candelabra in the center of the table. “Lower the gaslights, if you please.”

  The room dimmed, and Alistair noticed Vanessa standing by the wall. The maid’s dark uniform blended into the gloom—he hadn’t realized she was present before. On the other hand, he was glad to see her, as Aunt Emily had been in poor health of late. She was no longer a young woman…

  The flickering candles cast odd obscurities on the eager faces gathered for the séance. Alistair surreptitiously slipped his hand free of his aunt’s long enough to reach into his pocket and remove a small device about the size of a matchbox which he attached to the bottom
of the table. He pushed a button on the device and put his hand back into Emily’s.

  She looked at him and frowned.

  “Had an itch,” he whispered.

  “Please to be silent now,” Mariscova cautioned. “We shall begin.”

  Alistair studied the others present. The banker seemed to share his cynicism, but the women were all enthralled.

  “I call upon you spirit residing in these walls—come, spirit!” intoned the medium. “Speak to us. We call upon you, spirit!”

  Alistair studied the others. The women had closed their eyes, lips parted in excitement. The banker met his eye and shrugged slightly.

  The professor shook his head with a smirk. Typical spiritualist mumbo-jumbo. Couldn’t anyone think of an original approach? Of course, he had seen some odd things with his own work…Phaeton’s heart, for example. There was scientifically no way the mechanical man should have the capabilities that he did.

  Mariscova moaned, swaying in her chair. Her gauzy gown glowed with an eerie eldritch light, startling Alistair out of his musings. It was actually rather impressive. He wondered what could be causing the luminosity—such an interesting phenomenon. There might be some valuable uses for a substance that could make fabric give off its own light…

  “Let us see you, bound spirit!”

  Alistair leaned toward his mother. “This is ridicu—”

  “Shhh!” Leonora hissed.

  Alistair settled back in his chair with a huff.

  “We beseech you, spirit—come forth…” Mariscova’s voice rose in pitch and volume, no longer smooth and rich, but beginning to screech like a scalded cat. He worried that she might shatter the crystal. “At least give us a sign!”

  There was a loud rap from under the table, startling the entire party. Even Alistair jumped. The raps started coming fast and hard, dull booms filling the room. The table began to lift from the floor.