Shade City

by Domino Finn

  "Who are you then?"

  "You can call me Nero." The fiend spoke in a way that made it difficult to understand individual words. As if he was in pain.

  "What do you want?"

  "To dance," he answered. "To drink. To fuck." His words wheezed out of his skeletal frame. "To live."

  Violet had told me about the spirits, lost and wandering the Dead Side, usually unable to help themselves in death just as in life. When they broke down enough they became more like animals. Not even understanding their own desires, but fighting viciously for them as if it meant their survival.

  In a way, it did. Try as they might, many shades never succeed in making a connection with the living. Of those that do, most have trouble staying for long. They inevitably fall back into exile on the Dead Side. Sometimes, however, they find a way to bond with a host, like Violet attaching to the pocket watch. In these cases, when the shades do lose their grip on the material world, they are sometimes able to reclaim their foothold. Again and again, they can return to the same human being. Coming and going as chance and pleasure allow. It's the kind of fateful oppression that destroys lives.

  Expulsion, however, disrupts the connection. Exsufflation results in a forceful split. Not only are body and spirit sundered, but the long-term bond is obliterated as well. Soren had sucked in the white sage, so any permanent hold this fiend may have had on him was gone. The living Soren was safe. More importantly, this desperate creature before me had been cast out. The sage had done its work; this shade would more than likely never see the material world again.

  "It's time to move on," I told him. "This is all that's left for you here."

  The man's neck jerked before he recovered his composure and approached me. "I wanted to break you and you escaped me."

  Could I fight here? How would that even work?

  "I was lost and desperate and wondered who you were," he continued, getting closer. "And then, here you are."

  I backed up slowly, even if it made my position less threatening. This thing I was looking at wasn't quite human. The thought of it close to me was frightening.

  I could just wake up, right?

  Nero's eyes glazed over in a deathly white pallor. "You should never have come here."

  I felt stuck as I tried to step back again. My arms were at my sides and they wiggled like soggy noodles. I couldn't raise them. The thing that had been Soren advanced and my entire body heaved in place.

  I was stuck in water again, but that didn't prevent the scabbed spirit from effortlessly gliding forward and snatching my neck into his long hands. Overgrown, twisted, and broken fingernails scratched my skin. I opened my mouth wide and let out an empty scream.

  And then I was in my bed, convulsing. The comforter was wrapped around me snugly, and I had to wiggle back and forth to free my arms and roll over onto my elbows.

  The sun was already up, although the shuttered blinds did a good job of holding back the day. My shoes, shirt, and jeans were where I had left them, right on the floor, and everything appeared normal.

  I needed to stop drinking right before bed.

  Sunday

  The next morning was like most Sunday mornings. I slept in a little later than I would have liked, first only getting up to swallow an aspirin, take a dump, and force down a glass of water before passing out again. That is as good a prescription for hangovers as I've found.

  By the time I woke up for good it was noon. My apartment still had a slight November chill so I opened the vertical blinds and got a lovely view of the North Hollywood Metro Station across the street. The buses that periodically shuffled in and out were a bit loud but the convenience of the location trumped the distraction—I could hit Hollywood and Downtown with the Red Line without needing to drive or look for parking or suffer valet service. I did like to drive, of course, but I also did a fair share of drinking.

  I sat down on the couch with my laptop on the coffee table in front of me. I worked in the video game industry, and I had some contract programming to catch up on. I had originally thought to get ahead this weekend, but I couldn't bring myself to open Visual Studio. It was easy to find distractions. Right now, front and center were the other objects on the table. I was drawn away by a chunk of metal sitting next to an empty rocks glass from last night.

  It was Soren's ring. I must have removed the bulky thing from my pocket before I went at it with Rachel. I hefted it in my palm and examined it. It was heavy. Looked like a small horseshoe that wrapped around the finger, open at the top end just enough to preserve the effect. It was oblong and bulky and not at all convenient to keep on one's finger. But Soren did. Or Nero, anyway.

  What was it they said about horseshoes bringing good luck?

  I browsed Wikipedia and new age Wicca blogs. Going from encyclopedic style, heavy on references, to trust-me-I'm-mysterious was interesting. But the information was more or less the same. Horseshoes warded off spirits because they were iron of the earth. I leaned back on the couch. Fat lot of good the iron did for Soren.

  That shade, that fiend on the Dead Side—it still sent chills down my spine. I glanced out the sliding glass doors to the balcony and enjoyed the light of the day. If I was going to one day be stuck on the lonely streets of a gloomy Downtown Los Angeles, I might as well enjoy the sun when I could. Of course, the bliss didn't last long. I kept thinking about my dream. Then my thoughts drifted to other mysteries. The owl. The man in the plaid trench coat. Livia.

  I had known Violet for four years and there was so much about her that still puzzled me. Now I had finally uncovered new clues to the events of her death. It took all of three minutes before I was googling "double murder", "murder-suicide", and other relevant terms. Violet wouldn't have liked it, but she was on the nightstand in the bedroom.

  It took some doing, but newly armed with the name of her mother, I found an interesting parallel. It wasn't an exact match. The daughter's name wasn't Violet but maybe that was an alias. It would certainly explain why I hadn't been able to find the details of her death before.

  Ever thorough, and positive I was on to something, I dug into secondary sources to paint a picture of the events of Violet's death, six years ago.

  * * *

  The marriage of Alexander and Livia McAllister was a happy event. Livia was a well-to-do young socialite and Alexander's family had accumulated a sum of money in real estate and stock investments. Young Alexander was raised as the only son and successor of this empire and dearly loved his new wife. The couple were often described as dreamers and idealists who adored each other wholeheartedly, mostly noted because of the contrasting events of their later lives.

  They gave birth to a beautiful baby girl and raised her in the purest of environments. Little Aster McAllister quickly became a favorite of the household and was adored by her parents and grandfather. Alas, in 2004, the grandfather's health took a turn for the worse and he passed away.

  By all accounts, the fairy tale life of Alexander's family was over at that moment even though it wasn't yet obvious. Alexander became distant and cold as he tried to take the reins of the business. Livia became frazzled at her husband's disappearances and had several breakdowns. Poor Aster was caught in an impossible situation and was often forced to take sides. Eventually, she drew inward into depression. She became increasingly disassociated from her life and began cutting herself, troubling her parents all the more.

  This slow agony grew over the years. Livia visited several therapists and was on medication. She never recovered her old form but confessed to faking it for some time until, in 2008, six years ago, Livia McAllister finally snapped. She was ironing a suit for Alexander when the two engaged in a heated argument. The neighbors had reported some previous scandalous incidents, but this was to be the pinnacle.

  When Alexander's back was turned, Livia struck the back of his head with the iron. He fell to the floor but was still conscious. His wife bent over his struggling body and bashed his skull seven more times until his form lay ine
rt.

  Livia started at the sound of crying and saw that her only daughter, Aster, was a witness to the event. Rather than try to soothe things over or plead forgiveness, the mad woman turned on her child.

  Aster ran to the linen closet and locked herself inside. The doorknob was backwards and allowed this, and not unlockable from without, the closet had become a favorite place of safety for the twelve-year-old girl. Livia, however, could not quell her rage. She repeatedly banged on the metal knob with her domestic weapon.

  Alexander's personal driver, who would ultimately call the police, heard the commotion, including the screams of the little girl promising her mommy that she would leave her alone. Livia was reported to have said that her daughter was against her and loved her father more.

  Inside the closet, little Aster McAllister finally heard the doorknob crack away from its housing. It was unclear from the crime scene if she had made any attempts to struggle once the door was breached, but it was plain that Livia killed her daughter with two blows to the crown.

  When police arrived, they found Livia McAllister raving like a lunatic. She said that she had freed her family, that she was the last, and stated something about moving on. They were exasperated words from a woman covered in blood. And while she no longer held the iron, she swiped a kitchen blade at any officers who approached her.

  Livia's death was ruled a suicide even though one of the officers had fired a single shot at her. He claimed he was protecting his life but didn't want to kill the crazy woman and hoped to subdue her. When Livia fell to the ground, instead of allowing herself to be taken into custody, she slit her own throat and collapsed. Her ravings had ended.

  Alexander's body was clearly visible to the officers in the hall as soon as they had arrived. They had known the woman was a danger and were cautious in their approach. The officer who ultimately fired the shot later controversially claimed he would have gladly killed the mother had he been immediately aware of the grisly scene in the linen closet.

  While the paramedics were attending to Livia and Alexander, the police found the broken body of Aster in her battered hiding spot with a Kenmore iron lodged in her head.

  Aster was pronounced dead at the scene. The authorities weren't able to remove the iron until later. Livia officially died during transport to the hospital. But what was most amazing, and definitely warranted further investigation, was that Aster's father, Alexander McAllister, had somehow survived the brutal attack.

  * * *

  It was a perfect beach day. The sun ducked behind the clouds before it became unbearable but reappeared before it got too cool. Of course, the beach was perfectly supplanted by the pool in my complex. It was large and had cute girls hanging around. Especially on Sundays. I sighed and put the thought out of my mind. There would be no pool today. I had things to take care of.

  I strolled across the street and appreciated the short walk to the Red Line. Most people don't realize Los Angeles has a working subway. Probably because it's serviceable for some trips but doesn't exhaustively cover the city. I had read that there used to be more tunnels under LA but tire and automotive companies bought out and dismantled all the tracks in the thirties. It was the kind of big conspiracy that was actually true. In the end, the corporations were fined but the city was left more dependent on cars anyway.

  As I walked, I thought about promises to little girls. I thought about Violet. I had left her home. She didn't mind being alone as long as I spent time with her once or twice a day. It was normal for me to head out and do my own thing. Besides, I was just fact-finding. She wasn't needed.

  The taken aren't as active during the day. I don't know why. Maybe the sunlight hurts their eyes, or maybe they're sleeping off the previous night's debauchery. There was a reason I worked the nightlife circuit. It was as simple as going to where my customers were. Or prey. Suffice it to say that the strange characters I passed in the California sun were good old regular Los Angeles crazies.

  As I descended into the station on the escalator, the stagnant air deflated my mood. I had told Violet I would find the man in the trench coat for her, but I had another promise to keep. One I made to myself. And the dark story of Alexander and Aster gave me shivers.

  Sunday train rides tended to be the least eventful. People traveled for pleasure so there was a lower number of suspect passengers. A single aging woman announced to the entire train car that she was collecting donations before we set off, but besides that, everybody kept to themselves.

  There were only a couple of stops in the Valley before the subway cut under the Hollywood Hills. A ten minute ride brought passengers to the beating heart of Tourist-town. Not bad, considering it would usually take that long just to find a parking spot. Downtown was twenty minutes further. That left me ample time to question my actions.

  Alone time wasn't the only reason I had left the pocket watch behind. For this specific trip, I didn't want Violet to see that I was snooping into her family. She kept her past preciously private, but I had to move forward regardless. Her father, Alexander McAllister, was still in a coma at Keck Hospital. I didn't know anything about the place but read that it was a state-of-the-art facility with cutting-edge technology, located near Union Station. It made sense that Alexander would be cared for at an esteemed location since he came from a rich family, but I still didn't know what to expect. Something tugged at me.

  I hated hospitals.

  * * *

  I talked my way to the neurological ward, posing as a family friend. Walking through the serene halls sent chills up my spine. It was depressing to stroll past bed after bed of patients hooked up to machines that staved off their deaths. In truth, it was likely that several of them were already dead inside, and not in the way that most expected.

  The dead don't operate like most movies portray. Shades require tangible vessels to substantiate their immaterial forms into our living world. Inanimate objects and animals are mere conduits and windows; they enable interaction but are not doorways. They aren't true escapes from the Dead Side. I saw where Violet really spent her time. The Dead Side was her home; she only communicated through my pocket watch.

  Humans, however, are another matter entirely. When people find themselves weakened, whether through harm or drugs or sickness, they expose themselves to certain spirits that have found a way to pass through. Many nights I hunt the fiends who get high and play in the minds of the reckless youth, but there are other kinds. As Violet had said, the Dead Side transforms spirits into any manner of twisted perversions.

  There is a whole class of shade that thrives on sickness and decay. They possess men and women and break their bodies down until they are either expelled or their host dies. This kind is usually rampant in hospitals, no matter how nice or expensive, and it is often self-defeating to fight them. By the time it becomes obvious that these unfortunate people have decay growing within, it's usually too late to save them. I had tried on occasion, and sometimes the patients underwent immediate complications and degraded. Or died. It was a facet of the dead that was unfamiliar to me and Violet. I figured, with a hospital staff working around the clock, it was better just to let their sad songs play out. But the tune grated my conscience. I was relieved when I finally arrived at my destination.

  I stepped into the private room and was alone with the dormant form of Alexander McAllister. The shades were drawn, creating a gloom that was brightened only by the displays of the medical equipment. Besides the lights and beeps and the white noise of the breather, it would have been a crypt in here.

  I stood at the edge of the bed longer than I should have, afraid of what I might discover.

  Violet had said that her father abandoned her. She said he was lost. Out of reach. Since he was here, was it possible that he was left behind? Was it possible that she was just waiting for her father to join her among the dead?

  Then, like an idiot, I was smacked with the obvious, way too late. If Livia had been taken and tried to kill the whole family, that would
explain why Violet was helping me banish the dead. Perhaps she wasn't in a hurry to see her father. She was on a crusade instead. And I was her soldier.

  It was a sound theory but I had to collect the facts where I could. I may not have known anything about medicine, but I could see something that no one else in this building could.

  I placed my hand on the quiet chest of Alexander McAllister. I closed my eyes and breathed relief when I felt no foreign shadow within him. The man was not possessed; except for the grievous wound he had suffered, he was normal.

  "Who are you?"

  The words came from behind in a gruff voice. I jerked away from the hospital bed. In the doorway was a bald man in his mid-forties, yet still tall and strong. He looked like a former basketball player, especially since he wore cross-training sweats. In short, he looked mean and had large hands.

  "Oh, sorry. I didn't know anyone was here."

  The words repeated again in a thick accent. "Who are you?" He was Armenian, I thought. They have a sizable population in LA, and I'd been on one or two dates with Armenian chicks—but my expertise stopped there.

  "I'm a friend of the family, actually. I knew his daughter V—Aster. I just wanted to see how he was doing."

  The large man took a step forward. "He's in coma."

  I nodded in agreement of the astute observation. But it was more than a simple statement. It was a suspicion of my motives. It was a dismissal of any further questions I might have.

  "Are you a friend of Alexander's?" I asked.

  He sized me up. The Armenian man's face was made of sharp lines, a pointed noise, and taut lips. He was taking my curiosity very seriously. "Do we know you?"

  "N—no. His daughter, I said—"

  "What's she want?"

  I stared momentarily, unsure how to answer the strange question. It was clear this man didn't work for the hospital, but if he had any association with Alexander, he seemed unaware of the details of his life.