A Ghost of a Chance

by Meador, Minnette

  Cursing his curiosity, he found himself moving through glue as he approached the table.

  When he got close, he stopped and took a step back.

  This time he didn’t give a shit what his curiosity told him to do.

  The succubus was a black shade writhing and moaning against the stone. A veil wrapped tightly around her obscured her features. He thought she was suffocating. The agony in her voice pulled at his heart and almost made him brave. Keenan didn’t move.

  He tore his eyes away to study the clear balloon to his right. It wasn’t glass exactly; it was more like a giant child’s bubble, flexible, with prisms of color running over the surface where the candlelight hit it. Inside what he thought were swirling colors was something else completely.

  The ghosts, what must have been all of them, crowded behind the transparent material, each fighting for position, their hands, elbows, heads, pushed out against the soft material leaving it lumpy and moving. At the very middle staring down at him in profound sadness was Constance. She was speaking, testing the translucent wall with her hands, pleading with him, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. He scanned the mass of spirits trying to find the one who had led him here. Reggie was decidedly missing.

  The succubus’s voice was growing louder. Keenan barely got his legs moving. Terror was a new sensation he couldn’t get a handle on. Sweat soaked his sides, back, and neck; a hot blaze of fear made his heart a jackhammer; his hands shook.

  Casting a suspicious eye to the lifeless cloud on the left, he took the two steps up to the altar and watched the creature groaning on top of it.

  She was smaller than he remembered, barely five feet, he would guess. Without her magic (or whatever) she seemed tiny and almost human…but she was definitely not human.

  Keenan could see the undulating skin beneath the shroud, the unnaturally long fingers, and thin waist. In this state, without her allure, the succubus looked distorted, twisted, like a woman stretched thin by some machine. It made his stomach do a flip.

  The creature stopped her writhing and tried to move her arms toward him, but the shroud was a cocoon prison. Keenan reached to touch her and a deafening crack of thunder filled the space around his head. The next thing he knew he was soaring through the air.

  Finding himself sprawled several feet away and the lamp shattered next to his ear, Keenan lifted himself onto his hands and shook his head. He could feel bruises rise on his left arm and hip. They hurt like hell.

  Struggling to his knees, he looked up at the succubus then the cloud. It was glowing with more intensity.

  “Keenan Swanson.” The booming voice filled the entire chamber and he had to throw his hands over his ears. He wasn’t sure exactly where it came from, but assumed it must be from the cloud. An idle thought went through Keenan’s head, a voice from the burning bush. A throbbing headache, aided by the recent spill, made the pain unanimous. Everything hurt now.

  “Let them go!” he heard himself say. The ground shook under his knees.

  There wasn’t an immediate reply, so Keenan took the time to get up. His feet weren’t sure whether he was staying or going, so they took a neutral position, turning him sideways. A high-pitched noise tickled his nose.

  “They will stay.” The voice had better control. That statement just made Keenan a bit nauseous.

  “Yeah?” He sounded weak against these bizarre circumstances, and he figured it all had to be a dream anyway, so thought he might as well go for broke. “You can suck my dick!”

  There was a rumble that sounded almost like laughter. “Do you want to save them?”

  For a moment, Keenan wasn’t exactly sure what it was asking. How the hell was he supposed to save them? Not exactly his forte.

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “You can save them all. All it requires of you is a sacrifice.”

  Keenan scowled at the response, not liking the direction the conversation was taking. “What kind of sacrifice?”

  “A sacrifice of flesh.”

  Keenan didn’t like that either. It sounded painful. “I don’t know what that means, asshole. You want to clarify it a bit?”

  “Your soul you keep, your flesh you give to me.”

  Well that cinched it. He needed his flesh, enjoyed it on a daily basis. Besides, it was where he hung his clothes.

  “What happens if I tell you to go screw yourself?”

  There was another distinct rumble/laugh noise. “Then the seraph and the spirits descend to hell.”

  That made his heart stop for half a beat and he had to gasp to get air to it. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  Keenan shook his head, trying to get his brain to work. It was becoming more and more difficult. “What are you going to do with my flesh…uh, my body?” he asked, trying to buy some time to jump-start his thinking. “I mean, it seems all this puny bit of skin would do is slow you down. You’re an entity, for Christ’s sake. What do you need me for?”

  “I need you to father a new world.”

  “Oh.” Keenan humored the thing, not exactly sure what the hell it was talking about. He scanned the frustrated ghosts in the bubble, the writhing beauty on the table, and the open doorway behind him. The light from the entity was enough to drown out the candles now. It threw Keenan’s shadow against the back wall. All Keenan wanted to do right at that moment was get the fuck out of there.

  “I want to talk to my friends,” he shouted at the chamber. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a kind of pulsation from around the cloud’s still form.

  “No,” the voice said. “Decide…now.”

  The pulse got stronger and the creature’s voice sounded almost nervous.

  “Give me a break,” Keenan shouted back. “Can’t I at least talk to Constance?”

  “Decide now!” The voice was decidedly nervous now, shaking.

  All at once, as if it had blown off a tight restraint, the cloud exploded to almost twice its size. It darkened to deep gray edged with black and scared the shit out of Keenan.

  He didn’t even realize he was doing it, but he suddenly found himself stumbling to the door and out into the darkness down the long aisle of the nave heading toward the kitchen. Not even sure what happened, he risked a look. Behind him was pandemonium.

  Bright lights glowed from the open door accompanied by screams, shouts, and curses. Keenan didn’t stick around to see what came next. As fast as his feet could carry him, he was through the kitchen, out the side door, and yanking on the Jeep’s door handle with both hands. While he fumbled to get the car keys out of his pocket, the gray mass rose from the back of the church, casting blackness out from its folds that dimmed the distant streetlights.

  Keenan gave it a fleeting look, crammed the keys into the ignition, got the jeep going, fastened his seatbelt out of sheer habit, and drove away like a bat out of hell.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Bat Out of Hell

  He was doing seventy, but the storm kept coming. Keenan was terrified he’d hit some poor homeless guy crossing Morrison. Fortunately, the streets were vacant except for him, the cloud, and a single police cruiser with its lights and sirens at full blast.

  Keenan had no idea where he came from. Thompson was bringing up the rear trying to keep up. At least he hoped it was Thompson. All he could see was a large silhouette in the car.

  Hitting the Morrison Bridge at about eighty, the car bounced, caught air, and came down with a thud. Sparks flew. The seatbelt throttled him good. His chest shouted at him madly. Keenan was thankful the airbags didn’t deploy. The cloud was still gaining. So was the cruiser.

  The grates on the bridge hummed a thunderous melody against his teeth and ears, numbing his face as he sped past.

  Keenan knew he had to find open road, somewhere he could outrun the creature. Clamping his teeth against the stupidity of his actions, he cleared the bridge and took a quick left onto Grand, a disregarded red light steady against his guilt. The tires sc
reeched and the car tilted toward its side. Keenan instinctively leaned to the right. Thank God for American engineering and cast iron Jeep frames. The car righted and banged against the street nearly running into several parked cars.

  The turn cost him. When he looked into his rearview mirror, the creature filled it. He couldn’t see the pulsating blue and red lights anymore. Getting his thoughts together with a shake of his head, he floored it, catching a possibility straight ahead.

  He so suddenly took the freeway exit, the creature had no time to turn; it went right past him.

  The next part was tricky; taking a thirty mile per hour curve at seventy was not an especially good idea. Keenan figured he had nothing to lose, so cranked the wheel and hoped for the best.

  Providence had to be with him that night. The car didn’t flip over, he managed to miss the side railings, and he had a clear straight road in front of him. He floored it again and hit a hundred before he left the ramp.

  He mustered enough courage to peer into the mirror again. The creature was still behind him, but now the cop was between them. Before they went out, the bursting glow from the streetlights illuminated the cruiser’s windshield and Keenan recognized Thompson immediately. He was so relieved to see the gruff cop he could have kissed him. Thompson was furiously pointing to the right, trying to get him to pull over.

  Fuck that, Keenan thought. He wasn’t about to give this thing the “sacrifice” it wanted; joining his ghost friends for eternity wasn’t exactly what he had in mind as a way of life.

  A pang of remorse traveled through his chest when he glanced back at the frantic officer. The cloud was catching up with the cruiser and Keenan had no idea what the thing would do to Thompson to get to him. None of the alternatives appealed to him. It was one thing to condemn a bunch of ghosts and a succubus to hell; it was another to be responsible for a cop’s death. Especially Thompson’s.

  On impulse, he saw a wide section of turnout and stood on his breaks to make it.

  Gravel flew up on all sides of him. He heard something go bang. The jeep careened back and forth for several hundred feet, raining more rocks onto his windshield, and bouncing him around a like a Bozo Bop Bag. A shower of sparks suddenly covered the hood. They flowed over the windshield like a river. When the car came to an abrupt stop against something at the side of the road, the airbag burst open and smashed Keenan’s skull into the headrest. Stars ignited behind his temples followed by a crushing throbbing in his chest.

  The pain was brief and the bag deflated quickly. Something hot and liquid poured out of his nose. Keenan could taste salty copper in his mouth. The buzzing in his ears mingled with the siren whining behind him. Blue and red lights pulsated in a fuzzy confusion. Black then orange shimmered in front of him; he smelled burning rubber. Everything else spun wildly. He wanted to throw up. It took him several seconds to realize someone was shouting at him.

  His door burst open and a pair of hands reached passed him to grab the seatbelt. When it opened, Keenan slumped forward, unable to keep his body upright. The same hands caught him under the armpits and dragged him from the wrangler.

  What seemed like a mile of being drug through gravel went by and a kind of warmth spread from Keenan’s head to the bottom of his feet. When the motion stopped, he heard a massive explosion and someone folded him into the ground.

  Tiny pieces of gravel imbedded themselves into his forehead and right cheek. Smoke made his eyes water. It was irritating as hell. The smell of electricity and gas filled the air.

  There was that shout again. He thought it was saying his name. He wished it would just go away.

  Reality rushed back into him all at once. It brought with it agony, confusion, and the rugged face of Sergeant Thompson suspended above his head. He had never been happier to see a cop before.

  “Swanson,” Thompson was saying. “Can you hear me? Are you all right?”

  Keenan groaned and tried to sit up. A big mistake. His head caved in. He put his forearm over his eyes and tried to stay still so his brains wouldn’t fall on the ground and his insides wouldn’t explode.

  “I’m ok,” he said. “You?”

  “You stupid son of a bitch,” Thompson growled pressing something against Keenan’s nose. “You could have killed both of us. I…”

  There was a terrible sound…an otherworldly shriek. Thompson suddenly disappeared from Keenan’s side.

  Adrenalin pumped expediency into Keenan’s unprepared body. He sat up and scrambled as best he could to his feet. His legs weren’t very cooperative and he fell to his knees.

  Suspended in front of him was the entity. Lightning now covered the roiling mass of fury, sending tendrils into the night in every direction. It looked pissed.

  Keenan scanned the scene to get his bearings, trying to figure his best route of escape. Flames completely engulfed his Jeep. A pang of loss hit him as he watched his baby burn. The smoke traveled down the highway away from them. The cruiser sat parked and still running close by. Spinning lights reflected off the gray mass eerily, but the sirens were now silent.

  On the ground next to the cruiser lay Thompson. He wasn’t moving.

  “You son of a bitch!” Keenan tried to get up, but his surroundings were full of angry rain cloud. He couldn’t move. Several wisps of electricity snaked out of the mass and wrapped around his body. The jolt contorted it and took the breath right out of him. His vision blinked out and shut down.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Angels and Demons and Ghosts…Oh, My

  Keenan must have been a baby. The image of his dad, long gone by the time he was born, loomed above him. Shadows of the bars on his crib tattooed across his baby chest like restraints. The rotating plastic fish above his head moved softly in his father’s cold breath as he leaned into the bed. Keenan knew so little about Sam Swanson. An auto accident had claimed him before Keenan was even born. Yet here he was, staring down at him, a wispy smile playing against his pale face. Keenan cooed and lifted tiny fists to touch it, but they fell through like mist and instant pain forced howls out of Keenan’s tiny body. The freezing touch hurt like hell. When the lights flicked on, the pale man faded. Keenan’s mom put a bottle into his mouth and he fell asleep, the deep brown eyes of his father burned into his memory.

  Keenan woke up from the dream. He couldn’t move, but for some reason he was still aware of his surroundings, even if everything had gone black.

  The pain was gone. It had disappeared with the light. He was standing… no, he was floating above a glowing floor of clouds. Wherever he was started to lighten. He realized with a jolt that he had to be inside the entity.

  He wasn’t scared. If anything, it was all slowing down. His heart didn’t hammer anymore; his chest was rising and falling evenly. Even his hands were still.

  At the base of his skull a single vibration started. It was as if someone had put a tuning fork on his neck. The buzz faded into subtle music. It reminded him of the night the succubus had embraced him. But this tune was different.

  The sound did not make him calm and peaceful. On the contrary, it sharpened his senses making everything glaringly clear. Something forced his eyes closed so that all he was aware of was the music as it throbbed between his ears. Not singing exactly, but not instrumental either.

  Someone spread a blanket of black in front of his mind and stretched it tight. At the center of the fabric stood four tiny people. He couldn’t make out their features at first, but as the melody swelled they grew in size until he could almost reach out and touch them. They were frozen in place and looked faded and unreal, as if they were cut out of fifties cardboard. 3D fifties cardboard. There were three men and one woman. One by one, they clarified.

  The first man was old and bent, but with a divine twinkle to his eyes. There was a kind of contentment in his face that Keenan immediately trusted. The man was wearing a simple long blue robe and sash, but instead of a shadow, he cast a glow. It was soothing to look at him.

  Next to him was a young ma
n dressed in a short green intricate tunic with a golden sash around his hips and long black stockings. He had a short cape over his shoulders and a flattened hat on top of his head. Otherwise disheveled, his chin sported a trim beard. There was a humorous twinkle in his blue eyes. Keenan had only his artist’s eyes to confirm it, but he was pretty sure this was the most handsome man he had ever seen. He looked so familiar Keenan was amazed he couldn’t figure out where they had met. Over the man’s shoulder was strapped a bag with rolled parchments, brushes, and other primitive artists’ implements. Keenan knew his history; from the clothes, this man had to be from the fifteenth century, around the time of the Renaissance.

  On the other side of the old man was a vision. She was tall and lithe, nearly as tall as the young man. But the comparison stopped there. She was an exotic dark to his earthly light. Raven black hair, opalescent brown/black eyes, and skin the color of an Italian bronze goddess. Her ample breasts, lifted by a high tight waistband, rounded into dark cleavage. A braided golden sash tied her hair away from her porcelain face, which made her dark eyes gleam. The blue gown she wore accentuated her coloring until it was almost painful to look at. Keenan’s breath caught in his throat.

  The woman also looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. The sorrow in her eyes reached into Keenan’s chest and pulled out his heart. It was obvious she wanted to be with the young artist, but a third man standing next to her held her arm.

  This fellow was tall and lanky, handsome, confident, self-assured down to his fingernails. There was the look of mischief in his eyes that stimulated Keenan’s baser instincts immediately. He was trouble, the kind of trouble that thrilled the male soul and left him begging for more; a creature that preyed on vulnerable spirits and made them enjoy taboo pleasures, despite their convictions, commitments, or promises. This was a man who made bad men out of good, introducing them to every sin a man craved…and forcing him to enjoy it to excess. He had coaxed self-destruction into an art form. The pusher, the pirate, the vagabond, the rascal men gravitated to because they lacked a similar courage. The tempter. He was the thrill of men and the secret desire of women. Keenan recognized him immediately; after all, he had been under his influence for decades.