She’d had enough of his staring. “Trev … the fuck you lookin’ …” She was tired, the words weak, falling from her lips like ash. Her hand slumped to the table and she rested her head on it. Anger built in her, but she was just too tired to react. Her eyes narrowed into slits, nostrils flaring. She slammed her hand on the table’s surface. “Stop lookin’ at me!”
He was moments away from getting the crap beat out of him. She rose slowly from the table, trying not to topple over. She moved across the tiny room, a room furnished only by mattresses and a table and lamp. The smoldering crack pipe lay turned on its side, forgotten for the moment.
Her jaw was set in anger, teeth clenched and grinding slightly. She raised her hand to slap him but he didn’t flinch. So instead, she reached out and stroked his hair, and his thumb fell from his mouth, and her little boy rolled onto his back from sheer momentum.
She realized finally just how cold he was, how rigid his small body.
How his unblinking eyes were now focused on the ceiling.
She moved slowly away, knowing she’d have to eventually deal with him, but for now she returned to the numbing bliss burning away at the table.
The Three Wishes of Henry Hoggan
Who hasn’t heard some foreboding tale about a dark, desolate cemetery? Who in his right mind would want to be anywhere near a cemetery in the middle of the night? Unless he’s there trying to resurrect a dead relative.
As luck would have it—luck being a rather arbitrary thing—there Henry was, at around the stroke of midnight, wobbling drunkenly past the cast-iron gates of the Saint and Sinner Cemetery.
Henry closed his eyes, partly from imbibing too many Kamikazes at his favorite little pub, and partly from the dread of wandering alone outside a graveyard.
But he forgot two things:
He forgot he shouldn’t be wandering around cemeteries.
And he forgot, right before making contact with the low-hanging branch, to open his eyes.
There’s an old superstition about being near a graveyard at the stroke of midnight during a full moon on Elvis Presley’s birthday, when the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars. Maybe the Elvis part isn’t true. One can never be sure about these things. So capricious.
When Henry bopped his bean, he landed heavily on the ground outside the cemetery. But his hand hit the fence, slid through the cast-iron slats and landed with a thud beside a grave.
Unfortunately for Henry, this was on cemetery soil. And perhaps coincidentally this happened just at the stroke of midnight.
After Henry opened his eyes, he sat up and rubbed the new bump on his forehead. He clambered to his feet, shook his head, and took a quick look around. He was about to journey on when he felt a sudden cold stirring in his groin at the same time his spine did the Saint Vitas dance. Something cold—something papery—clamped down on his wrist.
He closed his eyes, prepared to keep them that way until the sun rose or until the foreign object was removed from his wrist. Neither seemed likely to happen anytime in the near future, but Henry still refused to open his eyes.
Then, a chuckle—the sound a gentle breeze, a dance on the air.
Henry felt the Kamikazes—that most dreaded of bar drinks—trying to return from the direction they originally went. “Wha-wha-wha?” His best impression of Lou Costello meeting Dracula for the first time. What the hell was in those drinks? he tried to say.
The voice of the stranger was as tranquil as his hesitant laughter. “At your service, sir,” he said with a bow, which Henry, whose eyes were still squeezed shut, didn’t see. “What are your three wishes?”
He tried to peek at Henry’s face. “Are you all right? Won’t you please open your eyes?”
“No.” But then Henry obliged, perhaps out of courtesy (although probably not), perhaps out of newfound bravery (even less probable), or perhaps out of some sort of ghastly curiosity (most probable, knowing Henry).
He wished he hadn’t opened his eyes. His skin, particularly beneath the bone-white moonlight, took on the even less healthy tone of underbelly of dead fish. “Is this a joke?” he cried.
This ghastly stranger couldn’t be standing there … rather, hovering several feet from the ground, talking nonchalantly, as if these were perfectly normal circumstances. The stranger’s flesh wavered, as if composed of swirling cumulus clouds.
Henry assumed he was probably just way too drunk. Or not drunk enough. Why oh why had he drank so much? Especially tonight of all nights?
“Please, I mean you no harm. My only desire is to fulfill your wishes.” The ghost inhaled, his brow raised. He spoke softly, yet there was a strain to his voice. As if he were trying to contain his impatience. “Let me show you. Come inside.”
Without the use of hands, Henry was somehow lifted off the ground, over the fence, and into the cemetery. He glanced down. “How’d you do that?” Henry shook his head, scratched his temple, scanned the area for cables or wires. Grown men just don’t float over six foot wrought-iron fences.
“What’s your name, sir?”
“What?” He stared at the ghost, “Uh, Henry Hoggan.”
“Splendid name.”
Henry cocked his head and raised his brow. He resembled Nipper, the dog immortalized, destined to listen eternally to the Victrola and His Master’s Voice.
“Splendid? Did you just say splendid?”
“My apologies! I’ve been dead a long time. I suspect my language isn’t as modern as to what you may be accustomed. Eh … groovy? Right on? Is that better?”
Henry shook his head. “Never mind.”
The ghost frowned, bowed his head. “I suppose I didn’t realize how long it’s been … I suppose I haven’t been paying attention.”
Hnry dropped to the ground and leaned against a headstone flanked with weeds and dead carnations. “Not to worry, really. I’m sure you’ll catch up. Besides, those phrases have a way of coming back to haunt—oh, sorry.”
The ghost sat on the ground facing Henry. “Please.” His tone was urgent. “We’re wasting time. Soon the sun will be up. Then it will be too late for your wishes.”
Henry nodded. “Sure. My wishes.” He snorted. “I have questions for you, buddy. First, what the hell is this wish nonsense you keep spouting off about ? And second, why do you care whether or not I get my wishes? Whoever heard of a ghost granting wishes?”
The ghost raised his arms overhead and Henry cowered, expecting the sudden rattling of chains and inhuman howls, a la Jacob Marley.
Instead, the ghost stretched, long-decayed joints popping. “Well, it’s not common, I’ll give you that. But it does happen, when the conditions are right. You set foot on cemetery soil at the stroke of midnight.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No I didn’t,” Henry said, getting back to his feet.
“Your arm did.”
“So what?”
“That’s just it. According to lore, you’re entitled to three wishes.”
“And you believe in legends?”
“You’re talking to a ghost and you ask me about legends? When you bumped your head, your hand touched graveyard soil.”
“So now I get three wishes.”
“Yes.”
Glancing up, Henry said, “Suppose I go along with this? Let’s pretend you’re for real. What do I need to do?” Henry didn’t wait for an answer. “Wait, wait, I know. Click my heels together and say, ‘There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home!’“
The ghost shrugged. “If that’s your pleasure.”
“You’ll supply the ruby slippers?”
The ghost looked confused.
“Never mind.”
“Well then. For my first wish I want …hey, wait a sec. You’re not gonna give me the Monkey’s Paw treatment, are you?”
“The what?”
“You know. I wish for something and get it, but only through some horrible circumstance that wil
l screw up my life forever.”
The ghost smiled patiently. “No, Henry. How inventive. But no. Nothing like that.”
Satisfied, Henry said, “I want to be filthy rich. A multimillionaire.”
“That’s fine. But you have to wish it. You have to say, ‘I wish I—’”
“Oh, bullshit!” Henry laughed. “You couldn’t give me five bucks if I cartwheeled from here to Bolivia, never mind make me rich.”
“But—”
“Oh, and changing the subject, here’s a friendly tip, pal. You really need to clean up your act. Your clothes are a mess. You don’t make much of a first impression. It’s no wonder I nearly crapped my pants.”
“I was buried in these. Dirt does this to trousers, you know.”
“Ahhh, don’t get your panties in a bunch. Just trying to help out. And it’s not that I don’t believe your wish story, but … hell. No, I guess I don’t believe your wish story.”
Henry sighed. “You never did tell me your name, ghost-boy. Let’s start with that.”
He straightened his filth-encrusted black tie and tucked his soot-stained ruffled shirt into his zipperless black trousers. The ghost bowed grandly, arms extended in a wide gesture. “My name is Ashley.”
“Ashley? Really? Sorry, man.”
“I happen to be quite proud of my name. I’ll thank you not to slight it.”
“Touchy! Sorry, Ash.”
“Ashley.”
“Whatever. Been dead a long time, huh?”
“Yes, I think so.” Ashley sat on a headstone.
“How long?”
“When are we?”
“Twenty-first century.”
“What? I died in nineteen-ought-three.”
“No kidding? You’re really well preserved.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, really. Well, I have nothing to compare you to, but all things considered …”
“Really? I suppose I just aged well. Are you ready to wish now?”
“Sure! Let’s get this done. Do I get the money now?”
Ashley stroked his chin. “I believe so. I’ll try.”
“Let’s do this right. Down on your knees, pal.”
“Pardon me?”
“Hell, if I’m going to do this right, and have to be master or ruler or whatever to your ghoul-slave thing, then you have to play your part, too.”
“Play my part?” He rolled his eyes but quickly genuflected before Henry.
“No way, buddy. Kneel. Knees in the dirt.”
Ashley groaned. “You’re rather enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Yup.”
Ashley fell to both knees.
“Good. Now say, ‘your wish is my command oh lord and master.’“
“I’m not exactly enjoying this. In fact, the only reason I’m doing this at all is because it’s required of me.”
“Just shut up and do it.”
“Your wish is my command oh lord and master.”
“Excellent. Okay. I wish I was a filthy rich multimillionaire.” He glanced around. Nothing. No sign of a change, no sign of money. “Satisfied, you freak? I told you—”
A suitcase materialized at Henry’s feet.
Henry opened it and stared at the stacks of money inside. “Well now,” he said, grinning. “I’m out of here!”
“What?” Ashley cried.
“I’m satisfied. I don’t need anything else. Keep the other two wishes. In fact, you use them. A gift.”
“It doesn’t work that way.” Ashley squeaked, swallowing hard. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve earned three wishes, Henry. You can have anything you want, anything at all.”
“I’m happy enough.” He tried to walk away but Ashley blocked his path. “Out of my way, Ash.”
“You can have anything you want. Mansions, castles. You could be the most powerful man on the planet.
“I’m rich, Ashley. I can buy anything I want.”
“World peace? End hunger? I could make you president or a theater star like E. H. Sothern. Or a movie actor, like Lionel Blythe.”
“Who? Never mind. Okay, ghost. Make me look like Brad Pitt.”
“Who?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Oh, boy, this isn’t going to be easy. Let’s see …”
“Hurry, Henry, choose someone because soon it will be sunrise.”
“What are you, a vampire? Besides, it’s only—” He glanced at his watch. “Four forty. We have two hours, at least.”
“Less than that. Besides, at the pace you’re going …”
“Just give me a minute.”
Ashley wouldn’t have minded a minute, but the trouble was, Henry used ninety of them trying to pick a face Ashley had heard of, which proved rather difficult, since Ashley had never actually seen a movie. So Henry described, as best as he could, Bradley Cooper’s gorgeous features.
“We don’t have much time before sunrise—”
“Down on your knees then and—”
Ashley fell to his knees. “Yourwishismycommandohlordandmaster!”
“Well then. I wish I looked like Bradley Cooper.”
Henry checked his face in the shiny reflective surface of the back of his watch. Bradley Cooper (or as close a facsimile as Ashley could conjure) stood where Henry had just moments before.
“Your third wish then? There’s less than fifteen minutes left before the sun’s reappearance.
“Well goodness gracious, I don’t know what else to wish for …”
“You could change the world, Henry. You could own the world! Do you hear me? Henry? Henry? You could—”
“I still don’t understand what you’re so excited about. What do you care if I get all my wishes or not?”
“I told you before. It’s a rule.
“Okay, then, world peace.” Henry hesitated. “Nah, I really don’t care about world peace. I know! Women. All shapes and sizes, all wanting me.”
Ashley collapsed to his knees. “Yourwishismycommandohlordandmaster!”
“I wish to be the most desirable man in the world.”
“Finally!” Ashley threw his arms up in the air and jumped up and down. “After all this time! I’m giddy!”
“Maybe you should calm down, boy.”
Ashley laughed, throwing his head back. “I’m free! You miserable toad, I’m finally free. If anyone deserves this cruel twist of fate, it’s you, Henry Hoggan! You horrid, wretched man.”
Henry smiled humorlessly. “I’d have to say I agree with you, Ash. I am a bastard. You see, Ash, I found this old book a while ago, sitting up in my grandma’s attic. I was looking for antiques. She wouldn’t miss anything anyway, the nasty, senile crow.
“Anyway, this book was full of bizarre stories. Folklore, old wives’ tales, junk like that. I normally don’t believe in that crap, but I figured what the hell, been having some bad luck with a couple of loan sharks lately. But I didn’t expect any of this to be true, not in a million years.”
“What are you saying?”
“I tried a spell a few weeks ago. Some simple little thing involving a coworker and a rash. I’ll spare you the details. I thought that maybe the success was just a coincidence. Stuff like that don’t really work, right? But I tried another little spell, then another, and they kept working. So I figured I’d try my luck here.”
“But you used all three wishes! You lose, Henry.”
“Not really. I made wish number three at 6:40. Well past the 6:32 sunrise.” Henry burst out laughing.
Ashley collapsed to the ground, trembling. “That’s not fair.” He lowered his head. “I couldn’t have been tricked; I have an internal clock of sorts. I have never been wrong about a sunrise.”
“Tricked you with a different spell.” Henry grinned. “That book is amazing. Hey, shit happens. Well, Ash. It’s been real.”
“Real what?”
Henry laughed and glanced around one last time, grabbed h
is million-dollar suitcase and headed cheerfully out of the Saint and Sinner Cemetery. Moments after stepping outside the gate, the suitcase disappeared from his hands. He felt his face transform back from Alec Baldwin to Henry Hoggan.
“What the hell just happened?” he screamed.
Ashley leaned against a headstone that read
Here lies Morgan Brackman
1795–1840
Told you I weren’t feelin’ real good
“Well, Henry, dear man, you didn’t read far enough. Looks like you forgot the Spell of Ephemeral Reversals.”
“The what?”
“Anything produced by a ghost stays that way. Unless you invoke the proper spell to offset it, of course. Looks like you forgot that part.”
“I didn’t see that spell!”
Ashley crossed his arms and smirked. “Could have been written in Latin.”
“No!” Henry shrieked, searching the ground for the missing suitcase.
“Oh, and Henry?” Ashley twiddled his fingers at him, “Carpe noctem, vade in pacem,” and muttered a few more things in Latin. “You’ve opened up the gates tonight, Henry old boy. Anything goes. Including me!”
Suddenly Henry was inside the cemetery, and Bradley Cooper stood outside the gates.
“Bye, Henry, it’s been real.” Bradley/Ashley disappeared into the night, glancing back once and fully enjoying the look of shock on Henry Hoggan’s face.
Not with a Bang but a Whimper
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
From The Hollow Men by T. S. Eliot
“That they’re kids—that’s the worst of it. They can’t understand what’s happening to them, can’t be held responsible. So that really is the worst of it—when you see a kid and you have to put it down.”
Harley sipped his beer—bottle only, no tap—no telling what might be floating in the tap line these days. He threw back his head like he was about to bust a gut laughing but came back up with a poker face. His Stetson was tilted to one side, but that was unintentional. It just flopped that way.
“They’s all Rotters, though,” the bartender said as she wiped a shotglass with a bar rag. “No use feelin’ sorry for ’em, Harley.”
In The End, Only Darkness Page 7
