Uncanny

by David Macinnis Gill

  “Don’t touch the metal,” Harken said with cold command. “Its fire will burn even a spirit.”

  “Yes, sir,” the spirit said and tried to salute.

  “Don’t salute me,” Harken said. “I don’t deserve your respect.” He grabbed the cast-off clothing to cover himself. “This will do till I find better attire. It is damn cold, isn’t it?”

  “You’re the prettiest man I ever seen,” the spirit said.

  “So I’ve heard. The first to compliment this face was a wicked woman who lured me from my home and plopped a changeling in my crib.” Harken wrapped the sweater around his waist like a kilt. “So forgive me if I’m not flattered by the compliment.”

  “And you’re just a kid,” the spirit said. “I wasn’t ever that good-looking. The ladies would’ve—”

  “A handsome face is a curse!” Harken picked up the discarded blanket and used it to wrap the second man’s corpse. Before covering the face, he closed the eyes with a gentle sweep of his hand and placed two coins on the lids. “Dormit in pace.” He shrouded the face and stood, wiping his hands. “On to business.”

  “But what about me?” the spirit said. “What happens to my body when you’re finished with it?”

  Harken had no suitable answer for him. He’d needed the man’s body to build his own, much the way sand, straw, and mud were needed to build ancient tombs. He felt a deep kind of regret for the man, to have given so much of himself to service, only to have so little in return for his sacrifice. The war he’d fought had not taken his life, but it had taken the life he would’ve lived and given him a soldier’s heart in return.

  “You’re done with this world and it with you.” Harken pinched Artie’s spirit like he would grip the string of a kite. “Come along. The ferryman won’t wait forever.”

  “What ferry?” the spirit asked.

  “The ferryman.” Harken pointed to a MBTA bus idling at the corner. “He’s made a special trip just for you. I have claimed your body, so I must help your spirit reach the afterlife. It is law, one of many those who pay penance must follow. Your friend, however, will have to find his own carriage to the afterlife.”

  “He wasn’t my friend. Just pretended, to get my smokes.”

  “We can’t always choose our friends, nor our fates,” Harken said and involuntarily winced. A pretend friend was better than none. “Me, for example. I chose the wrong friends, and it’s landed me in the service of lesser norns.”

  “What’s a norn?” the spirit asked when they reached the bus.

  “In your vernacular?” Harken rapped on the door. “A witch.”

  “Witches don’t scare me, but the bus makes me puke.”

  “There are worse fates,” Harken said and rapped again, “than a smelly bus to the afterlife.”

  The bus driver opened the door. He was a stone-faced man, and his eyes were like dun-white marbles. “No one rides for free, not even the dead.”

  “A penny for the ferryman.” Harken pulled a mangled token out of thin air and pressed it into the driver’s palm. He guided Artie’s spirit to a seat. “This soldier was a decent man in life, though life was hardly decent to him, and he deserves to be warm one last time.”

  “Don’t we all?” the driver said.

  “Some do,” Harken said, stepping back to the curb. “Others deserve a bad turn at the end of a long, bitter cold night. Or so the Fates have told me.”

  As the bus rolled into the darkness, he shivered from the cold and from the thought of what lay ahead. First order of business was to find some suitable clothes, then a meal for his empty belly and a pint or two to slake his gnawing thirst. That was the problem with going decades without a meal—you woke up starving. After the needs of his new body were met, he’d begin his service once again, by making sure the wicked creature he’d buried centuries before was still in her grave.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE lightning bolt that awoke Harken had grown weaker when it reached Granary Burying Ground a half mile away. But the charge was strong enough to touch a certain casket in a tomb deep underground. The casket was four by six and two feet deep. The sides were carved from whalebone and inscribed with short poems, mostly in Latin and Greek. Engraved on the lid was the depiction of a woman at the gallows, a noose around her neck, an executioner stabbing her with a bodkin needle. The lightning dissipated quickly, and it would have done no damage, except that the casket made an almost imperceptible sizzling noise, like raw meat over an open flame.

  Inside the casket, the Shadowless stirred.

  Two lidless eyes rolled from the back of a skinless skull, and mummified lungs exhaled a mouthful of dust. Because no one knew about the tomb, no one knew when the Shadowless awakened from a forced slumber. No one heard when desiccated lips began to whisper, nothing but the worms crawling blind in the dirt. They began to writhe and twitch, and they fled inch by inch to the surface. But in the darkness they were still unseen, so no one thought it odd when dozens of crows and rooks began to gather from across the city, perching in the trees that dotted the burying grounds, filling the air with their harsh cries and devouring the fattened, juicy worms.

  Several feet below, the Shadowless whispered, and the carrion birds stopped eating. They turned their heads in unison, listening like soldiers given orders. As one, they began to tear the ground with their beaks.

  The Shadowless had lain in the casket for over four hundred years, unmoving, unspeaking, unhearing, unseeing. Now she peered into the darkness with something akin to hope. Now the shades were moving, and the Shadowless could hear sounds, not just of birds, but of humans. Humans who were happy to listen to the promises of treasure she whispered into the wind.

  Then she raised her hand to the lid of her coffin and began to claw.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SECONDS before the lights returned to Tom’s Pub, I heard a voice shout, “Blood!” Then the pub filled with the hum of fluorescent bulbs and calls to turn on the TVs because it was the two-minute warning and the Pats were driving, for chrissakes.

  Nobody noticed my spastic episode. Nobody except Devon, who never let the tiniest detail slip by. Ma said Devie had an eye for minutia, but the family therapists all diagnosed her with early-stage OCD.

  “You’re jumpy.” Devon cocked her head just so. “Ma, Willow Jane’s got the jumpies. Give her some meds.”

  We didn’t mention Ma’s meds. Not in the apartment, not among family, and definitely not in a packed restaurant. After the shooting, Ma had suffered from depression, PTSD, and whatever the therapists needed to write down. She tried to hide it, but we had a tiny apartment, and when you cried yourself to sleep, your daughters knew. The therapists never could decide how to fix her, so Ma decided for them. “No more secrets, girls,” she had told us when she cut the pills from nine a day to two. “From this day forward, we’re a family again.”

  “I don’t need Ma’s meds,” I told Devon, my tongue feeling like it was too big for my mouth. “I just. Just.”

  Blood!

  Dancing red and blue lights seemed to wash over me. I heard a whoosh of air, then the shimmering sound of a xylophone. The notes warbled in my brain, and the room wobbled. The notes turned to whispers, and the whispers formed a voice, urgent and strident, the sound sharpening in my mind: “Come closer.”

  My body jerked. I grabbed the table and held on tight. “Whoa!”

  “Willow Jane?” Ma held the cake knife ready to cut. “What’s wrong?”

  The price will be paid in blood, I thought, then steadied myself until the feeling passed. After Dad died, I used to hear gunshots that woke me up, but our counselor said it was trauma, and they faded away. “Just got a little dizzy. Probably used too much wind blowing out the candles.”

  “You need more practice blowing,” Kelly said and winked. “Too bad Will Patrick’s not around.”

  “Will and Willow sitting in a tree,” Devon said. “K-i-s-s-ing.”

  I covered Devon’s mouth. “First, you know I hate that song
, and second? We broke up Friday.”

  “What?” Kelly said. “Why?”

  “He bought me lunch.”

  “But that’s nice,” Kelly said.

  “At Uno Burger.”

  “I like their fries,” Kelly said.

  “And paid with coupons.”

  “A thrifty man,” Kelly said.

  “A cheap bastard,” Siobhan said.

  “And I had to order what was on the coupons,” I said, “but I didn’t want what was on the coupons because it comes with onions, and he called me a condiment snob.”

  “Onions are toppings,” Siobhan said, “not condiments.”

  “Right? That’s what I told him,” I said, “and he made a scene. Over a vegetable. I had to cut him loose. So no more k-i-s-s-ing, huh, Devon?”

  “No more of this fresh talk at all,” Ma said. “If I hear another word, you’re all going straight to confession.”

  “But I’m Episcopalian,” Kelly said. “I never confess.”

  “And I’m not anything,” Siobhan said. “So I don’t do sin.”

  “All the more reason. Here, stuff your faces with cake. Maybe that will shut you up.” Ma deftly chopped the cake into eight sections. She dropped a slice on a party plate. “You first, birthday girl.”

  “Ma,” I said, “you’ve got frosting on your fingers.”

  Siobhan grabbed Ma’s hand and licked the frosting off. “Cat bath!”

  “Guess it’s true.” Kelly forked up a bite of cake. “She will lick anything for chocolate.”

  Ma clapped her hands over Devon’s ears. “Siobhan! Kelly! She’s seven!”

  “Seven and a half!” Devon said.

  “Sorry, Mrs. C. Got carried away,” Siobhan said and looked at the floor while Kelly smirked and nibbled on a frosted rose, not looking the least bit sorry.

  Ma scanned the room, daring any of the regulars to comment. “Surely your parents don’t allow that kind of talk in their house.”

  “Allow it?” Kelly laughed. “They start it.” Her parents were both professors at Northeastern, part of the wave of yuppie squatters gentrifying South Boston, and they didn’t censor anything. “We talk about s.e.x. all the time.”

  “S.e.x. is sex,” Devon said. “Spelling words doesn’t work anymore, ya know. I’m not in kindergarten.”

  “Ahem,” I said. “Can we stop with the moral corruption of my sister?”

  “Sorry, Willie,” Kelly said.

  “Don’t call me Willie,” I said.

  “Only I get to do that,” Siobhan said.

  “No you don’t,” I said.

  “Can we eat now, Willie?” Devon asked.

  “Dig in, Devie,” I said. “I hope you like your cake with wax.”

  “And spit,” Siobhan said.

  “You didn’t seem to mind a certain somebody’s spit last week,” Kelly said.

  “Jeezum!” I said. “What’s it with you two tonight?”

  “Sorry,” they both said, but they still weren’t, so I had to be sorry enough for all three of us.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE street was dead when we left Tom’s Pub. Decaying leaves swept down the sidewalk, pushed by a phantom wind. The air smelled of ozone and the harbor’s oily, mossy odor of neglect.

  “Close the friggin door, will ya?” somebody barked from inside.

  I was still holding the door for my guests, who were walking off without me. I was woolgathering again, thinking about the voice I had heard.

  “Sorry!” I said.

  “Get your head outta your ass, kid!”

  I wanted to tell him what he could do with his own ass, but I wasn’t brave or quick enough. Siobhan could fire off insults faster than Darth Vader could swing a light saber, but I was an Imperial stormtrooper of insults—slow on the trigger and missed the target every time. So I let the door swing shut and rushed to catch up with my party. Ma had the leftover cake, and Devon carried my gift bag. Inside was a vintage Battlestar Galactica lunch box and matching thermos from Siobhan and a frumpy wool scarf that Kelly had regifted because it reminded her of me.

  “Movie starts in a half hour!” Siobhan yelled. “Move your butt.”

  “Yeah,” Kelly said and shook her hips. “Move your butt!”

  Devon started shaking her hips. “Move it, move it!”

  Ma popped the back of her head. “Enough of that now.”

  “Ma-aa-aa,” Devon said.

  “Your mom’s right.” Kelly gave my sister a fist bump. “Stay out of trouble, kid.”

  “It’s gonna hurt when you die,” Devon told Kelly, who didn’t seem to hear. Her voice was low and gruff, as flat as still water.

  “Devie,” I said, shocked. “Why would you say that to her?”

  “To who?” my sister said, rubbing her eyes like she’d just got up from a nap. “I didn’t say nothing.”

  I mouthed an apology to Kelly, who shrugged like, what’s the big deal? “Siobhan, you guys go ahead, I’ll catch up,” I said and turned to Ma. “Thanks for the party. It was wicked awesome.”

  “You’re only saying that to make me feel better,” Ma said.

  I kissed her on the cheek. Her skin was warm. “Did it?”

  “From you, always. Wish your fa—” Ma began, then caught herself. Maggie Mae wasn’t one for sharing her wistful in public. “It was nice. Wasn’t it nice of Siobhan? She’s a good friend, when she’s not a bad influence.”

  Siobhan and I had lived on the same block since birth. In South Boston having the same address made you sisters for life. Kelly was a latecomer. Her parents moved in when she was three, so Ma always considered her an outsider. She still referred to Kelly as “that O’Brien girl.” The last few weeks, Siobhan had picked up on the habit, too. There was something going on between her and Kelly, but every time I asked about it, Siobhan blew it off.

  “Your presents are pretty.” Devon peeked into the birthday bag and took out the scarf, pulling the receipt along with it. The wind caught the paper and whisked it down the street. “This is prettier on me.”

  “Know what? You’re right.” I wrapped it around her neck. On her, it wasn’t frumpy at all. “You look ravishing, darling. It’s yours.”

  “Yay!”

  “I should’ve brought your gift to party,” Ma said, rubbing her hands and getting the distant look that worried me. “What was I thinking? Mike would’ve wanted everyone to see it.”

  “No worries on the presents.” I kissed Ma’s wind-ruddied cheek. “Family time, that’s all I need.”

  Ma frowned. “Always thinking of others, that’s my Willow Jane,” she said. “You girls behave yourselves. No phone calls from the police this time.”

  “We’ll behave, Ma.”

  “It’s not you I worry about. That O’Brien girl. So fresh. What a mouth.”

  “Kelly’s okay, just a little loud.”

  “A little something,” Ma said.

  Siobhan wolf whistled. “We’re gonna miss the T!”

  “I’ve got to run.” I blew them both kisses and jogged after my girls. The wind cut through my second-hand overcoat, and my bare knees rattled from the cold. “Coming!”

  “You’re not wearing leggings in this weather?” Siobhan said when I reached the corner, and we turned up Broadway toward the T. “Holy batshit crazy, Willow Jane.”

  Kelly wore her peacoat, and Siobhan had pulled a thick hoodie over her tank top. I was dressed in a formal white shirt, a black wool skirt, and black flats.

  “Leggings don’t go with this skirt.” I pulled my overcoat tight. “What’s crazy about that?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Kelly said. “If you like dressing in uptight casual.”

  “You’re an uptight casual,” Kelly said.

  “What’s wrong with being uptight?” I said, and then added: “It beats being loose.”

  “Burn,” Siobhan whispered.

  “Willow Jane!” Kelly opened her mouth wide, pretending to be shocked. “I can’t believe you said that! Come on, we�
��re friends.”

  “See? I knew you needed to cut loose.” Siobhan laughed and bumped my fist. “You keep too much bottled up, y’know?”

  No, I don’t. I wouldn’t start cursing, and I wouldn’t be freely exploring my sexuality, either. Kelly’s parents let her do what she wanted, but I didn’t have that luxury.

  “So tomorrow in chemistry?” Siobhan said. “I’m going to be lab partners with your future husband.”

  “Which future husband?” I said, playing along as we passed C Street.

  “The one from Dorchester. You’ll like him. He’s got his act together.”

  “Is his brain full of smarticles?”

  “He plays hockey and has nice teeth. They sparkle like a million tiny chips of mica.”

  “Hockey and teeth,” I said. “Checklist complete.”

  “In case you guys hit it off, what baby names have you got picked out?” Siobhan said. “Now that William’s out of the picture. Unless you want to name your kid after a jerk face?”

  “Ew. No,” I said. “Kate, if it’s a girl. If it’s a boy, Harry. Charlotte if I have a second girl.”

  “If you have a second boy?” Siobhan said.

  “Then there will a discussion with the husband about his chromosomal shortcomings.”

  “Oh my god, baby names?” Kelly interrupted, her eyes the size of half dollars. “Willow, are you pregnant?”

  Siobhan looked at me.

  I looked at Siobhan.

  We burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Kelly said. “You guys? Stop laughing at me! You know I hate that.”

  “Sorry,” I said, “it’s not what you think.”

  Siobhan grinned. “Yeah, you gotta have sex before you get knocked up.”

  “I thought you and Will had—seriously?”

  “So baby names,” I said, cutting her off. “You know, what we’re going to name our kids, after college is over and our careers are established? That’s the Life Plan.”