by Tim McGregor
He shrugged. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
They went past the hedge to the street. The brackish glow of the lamp posts overhead forming odd shadows.
“So?” Hannah said. “Straight back to Gatwick from here?”
“Car rental first.” He gestured to the Fiesta parked before them. “Need to return this poor excuse of a motor.”
The car was dented and misabused, looking like something that had been towed away from an accident scene. “Cor,” she said. “What the hell did you do to that thing?”
“Had a little fun.” He plucked the keys from his pocket. “Say, you learning to drive yet?”
“Are you daft? I’m thirteen, John.”
“Perfect age to learn.” He tossed her the keys. “Start it up. We’ll take it round the block.”
“I’ll crash into something.”
Gantry plopped into the passenger seat. “That’s the idea. Get in.”
Fired up, the motor revved too high and then jerked crazily into the street. Stalling as Hannah managed the coordinated footwork between clutch and accelerator. They bumped a shiny Toyota, crumpled against a low brick fence and knocked over a pillar box before reaching the end of the laneway.
~
Civil twilight hit just before seven o’ clock, burnishing the clouds over the cityscape with a pinkish hue. Darkness settling in. And that meant Billie needed to hustle if she was to get to work on time. Wednesday meant that Joanna was working the day shift and she grumbled mightily when the night shift bartender was late.
Leaning close to the bathroom mirror, Billie cursed as the eyeliner clotted. Old and stale, she really needed to remember to get a new one. A little mascara and she’d be done. Work nights meant getting dolled up. Her hair in a bun atop her head, the little dash of black around the eyes and she was ready to go. The wardrobe was a little uninspired. A scoop-necked t-shirt and jeans, all in black.
Reaching into the disaster of the closet, she rummaged about until she popped back with the vintage cardigan Jen had given her a year ago. Pink, fake wool. Slipping it on over the black tee, she looked like one of the Pink Ladies. Frenchie or Rizzo?
Rizzo all the way.
Reminiscing about the Pink Ladies brought on a maudlin flush for her own ladies. The birthday party may have been a bust but what she missed was just the four of them. A good piss-up, bitchfest, no dudes. Leaving the bathroom, she resolved to have one here as she grabbed her keys and unplugged her phone from its charger. She was glancing at the calendar over her little work desk, trying to pick a date, when her cell went off.
Mockler’s name on the display. Smiling, she answered with a bright “Hey handsome.”
“Billie,” he said. His tone was off. Not warming to her flirtatious greeting. Trouble. “You were right,” he stated.
“You sound a bit tense.”
“Long day,” he said. They had been together only a few months but already this response was old hat, surprising neither of them. He didn’t elaborate on why or how it had been a long day.
“I ran a check on both of them,” he went on. “The couple. Robin and Noah. You were right. It’s not the house. ”
Billie went still, the tattered, not-warm, coat draped in her hand. “What did you find?”
For reasons she couldn’t parse, Billie’s mind raced to Robin. Something awful in her past. Please don’t let it be her.
“The husband,” he said. “He had a child with another woman six years ago. A little girl. She died.”
The oxygen clamped in Billie’s throat. “Oh God.” Again, her thoughts sprinted off into awful places. “How? It wasn’t anything violent, was it?”
“Not the way you’re thinking. A car accident, the car tee-boned when someone ran a red light. The little girl held on for a day. She died in hospital.”
Billie felt her knees buckle. She sat down on the floor. Why hadn’t she seen this before? “Oh God. How old was the little girl? What was her name?”
“Grace Marie,” said Mockler. “Three-years old.”
“Oh God,” she repeated.
“Billie, you don’t think…” he queried, without finishing his question.
“Of course it is. It makes sense.” Urgent now, tossing the coat on and jamming her feet into her boots. “I gotta go.”
“You’re not going over there, are you?”
“I have to.” She flew out the door without bothering to lock it. Boots pounding down the worn steps, she said, “I’m gonna be late for work, too.”
“Are you sure it’s safe? That thing knocked you around last time.”
“I can’t leave it. It’s knocking the family around now. Can you meet me there?”
“Not right now,” he said, an odd hitch to his voice. “I’m stuck in a shitstorm at the moment.”
“Why?” she asked, blowing out the door to the street.
“Long story,” he said again. “Call me if there’s trouble. I’ll get outta here soon as I can.”
“Damn it. There’s no cabs.”
“And be careful.”
Billie promised she would and hung up. Snow was everywhere, the air thick with it as it fell. Already four inches of it on the ground with no sign of letting up, the street yet to be plowed. The snowstorm must have come out of nowhere, falling hard and fast like this. As a result, there was no traffic on Barton Street, let alone the hopeful glow of a cab light.
She’d have to go on foot. Unprepared for it, rushing out of the house without her toque or gloves or scarf. Her good ankle boots instead of the sturdy Sorrels. The black suede would be ruined tromping about in this much snow.
Chapter 23
EIGHT BLOCKS TO the battered Victorian on Cavell Avenue and the only vehicle she saw was a snow plow, its blue ambulatory light winking through the heavy snowfall. Her hands were numbed, stuffed in the pockets of her coat and her feet were wet from the soaked leather. The snow, coming down heavy and piling up fast, made the walk harder. Not a soul out shovelling their sidewalks.
Passing the checkered windows of the Go-Karts building, she hurried on to the tilting porch steps and banged on the door.
“Robin!”
No answer. The windows were dark, the driveway empty. She banged the door again, pointlessly. Something felt different about the dwelling, altered somehow behind the glass. Taking a step back on the snow-crusted porch, Billie unclenched that secret part of her heart and let her senses unfold.
Like the family, the ghost was gone.
That made sense. The spirit here was not bound to the property, but rather to the people who lived here. If, she cautioned, it really was the ghost of this little girl who had perished in a car accident. The ghost had followed the family wherever they had gone.
Shivering, she tried the door knob on the off chance that it was unlocked. She was freezing and wanted out of the cold, even for a minute to stop from trembling so bad. The door wouldn’t budge. Scrabbling her phone from her pocket, she dialled Robin’s number with dead fingers. Ring after ring with no answer.
“Damn it,” she stuttered through chattering teeth. “Where are you?”
Keep walking. Standing still was just deepening the cold in her bones. She staggered down the porch and stumbled through the snow, her feet dead clubs in wet boots. Marching back up to Barton meant pushing into a headwind, the snow like hail against her face, pecking at her skin and eyes.
A muffled buzzing noise reached her. The phone in her pocket. She clawed at it with senseless hands, saw the number on the display.
“Robin?” she said, putting it to her ear.
Noise scratched down the line, the baffled scrape of static.
“Billie?” said the caller. Robin, her voice shrill and fragile. Like she’d been crying.
“Robin, where are you? Are you all right?”
“No.”
Billie pressed the phone tighter against her ear. What she thought was static was noise in the background, a hiss of wind like the woman was standin
g in a hurricane. “Robin, what’s all that noise?”
“It followed us,’ Robin sobbed. “Even here, it followed us.”
“Robin, listen to me. I think I know who it is. Tell me where you are.”
“The church. We’re at the church. The Reverend is fighting it but it won’t give up.”
A sharp crack sounded in the background. Billie heard the woman whimper in fear and hold her breath. She pictured her ducking for cover.
“Oh God,” Robin whispered. “It wants to kill us.”
The church. It meant nothing to Billie. There were a hundred churches all over the city. “Where’s the church, Robin? What street?”
“Emerald. At Main.”
“I’m on my way. Stay put.”
“No!” The woman’s voice was shrill with desperation. “Don’t. You’ll just make it worse.”
“That’s the Reverend talking,” Billie growled. “Just hang on. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Hanging up, Billie tried to run but the snow was too deep and her fancy ankle boots were not soled for traction. Slipping, she dropped hard on one knee, got up and limped onward. Reaching Barton, headlights blinded her but it was just a police car, cruising slow down the snow packed pavement.
Main and Emerald was another dozen blocks away, maybe more. Hiking through the storm would be hell and her mind drifted, unwanted, to an image she had seen once of frostbitten toes. Blackened and useless, the nerve endings dead, blood no longer flowing. Amputation. How hard would it be to walk with a few toes lanced from each foot?
Another flash of headlights on her left, sparkling against the falling snow. Hovering over the twinned headlights was the softer, dull glow of a taxi light.
Billie leaped over the snowbank into the middle of the street, waving like a dying castaway adrift on the sea.
~
Evil had breached the gates. The lock broken asunder, doors flung open and the devil stomped through the church.
The light from the sconces twinkled against the sheen of sweat on Reverend Joy’s brow. On his knees and out of breath, he prayed to the Father for strength. The battle had weakened him and tiny fissures of doubt crackled on the surface of his resolve.
Why would God allow such malevolence to enter the church itself? Of any place, surely this would be the safest, the church a fortress against the diabolic forces tormenting this poor family. Was he unworthy of the Almighty’s protection?
No.
The festering doubt was just another trick of the malevolent spirit tearing apart his church. The devil fought on all fronts and he played dirty, all low-blows and back stabs. Get up, he scolded himself. Don’t let the evil see you on your knees in your own church. Don’t give it the satisfaction.
Reverend Joy pushed himself up, ignoring the pain in his legs, in his back. The church was in chaos, a hurricane force blew through the nave, knocking candles to the floor and ripping apart the hymnal books. Torn pages blew and circled through the air, the interior of the church transformed into a shaken snow globe.
The family was huddled into a pew, ducking for cover from the hurtling debris and shielding the little girl between them. They had been praying, heads bowed in supplication until the chaos had ruptured their sanctuary.
“Keep praying!” the Reverend called to them over the rustling wind. “Don’t let the evil intimidate you. Prayer will protect you.”
The gold curtain over the sacristy ripped from its rod, flinging and tumbling through the air. The holy water in the font splashed to the floor.
Reverend Joy genuflected quickly and then held his head high and renewed his prayer.
“In the name of Saint Micheal, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. let God arise and let His enemies be scattered, and let them that hate Him flee before His face. As smoke vanishes, so let them vanish. As wax melts before the fire, so let the wicked perish at the presence of God!”
A sharp crack sounded over the rattle of the wind, the small door of the tabernacle flinging open behind him. Reverend Joy twisted around as the chalice and bowl hurtled out like missiles. He ducked quickly, dodging the silver cup but the ciborium, heavy and gold-plated, struck his shoulder blade, spinning him off his feet. The devil was determined, it seemed, to keep him on his knees.
Then something shifted, a change in the air pressure. Cold blowing in from his left.
The tall doors of the church stood open, letting the snow billow inside. Framed there in the doorway was the figure of a woman, silhouetted against the greasy street light.
The witch was here.
~
The cabbie turned out to be a friendly Trinidadian. New to the country, new to driving in snow.
“Wait,” Billie said, frantically searching every pocket, fingers stinging. “I don’t have enough.”
In her rush out the door, she had neglected to take anything but her phone, including any cash or cards. There was a crumpled five dollar bill stuffed into her back pocket but the dashboard meter had ticked past that amount after the first block.
“You got no money?” the cab driver asked.
“I got a five. Let me out here. I’m sorry.”
He shut the meter off and kept driving. “Night like this? Not fit for man neither beast.”
“Thank you,” she said. The cab was warm and dry and she almost cried with relief. “You’re a saint.”
The road was slippery, the cab skidding at the slightest touch of the brakes. Like the few other vehicles driving in the snowstorm, they crawled along at a cautious pace. Ten minutes later, the driver pulled up before the brick facade of the church.
He shifted in the seat to look at her. “Odd hour to be going to church.”
“It’s an odd day.” Billie checked the identification card on the back of the seat. Errol Baptiste. She handed him the fiver. “Thank you, Errol. It’s very kind of you.”
“Stay warm,” he said as she climbed out.
Errol drove away. Billie stood in a windrow of snow, looking up at the church. The steps were barely visible, buried under all the white stuff. Gripping the handrail, she went up and pushed open the tall door.
Bedlam. The air was filled with paper, swirling around by a vortex of strange wind. Robin and her family were hunkered down in a pew, their heads bowed in prayer, eyes closed to the mayhem.
The Reverend stood in the aisle, commanding the devil to leave his church as the wind lashed him. His eyes shut in prayer as he cast the evil out and when he opened them, he levelled his gaze at Billie and cast her out, too.
“Stop it!” Billie hollered. Moving past the font, she stepped into the aisle and scanned the pews. The ghost was here, hidden from sight but its strength pulsed all around her like an electric throb. It was furious.
The Reverend strode toward her, his hand forming the sign of the cross before him. “I adjure thee, Satan, and all thy minions to leave this house of God!”
“Enough!” Billie shouted over the rustle of paper and hissing wind. “It’s not evil. It’s just a ghost.”
“Lies!” he hollered back. “Get out of my church, witch! The devil can throw anything against me but he will not win! Not here, not now!”
The wind changed direction suddenly, blowing the young woman and the Reverend over. Joy came up first, all but shrieking at the devil to leave.
Billie got to her knees, her hands and feet still stinging from the cold. “It’s not the devil. It’s just a little kid.”
“It’s lying to you, woman,” bellowed the preacher. “Can’t you see that? Evil will say anything to get its way.”
Struggling to get up, Billie tried to pinpoint the spirit within the church but it was nowhere and everywhere at once. She didn’t know how a spirit so young could become so powerful. In the end, it didn’t matter. It just needed to stop. What was the name Mockler had given her?
“Grace?” Billie said aloud. “Stop this.”
The storm ended instantly, leaving a vacuum of silence after the roaring
wind. The torn up pages fluttered down to earth in graceful swoops that reminded Billie of the butterflies in the conservatory. She wished Tom was here.
The family lifted their heads slowly from behind the pew. Robin’s cheeks were flushed, as if she was hurt, and Noah’s eyes darted around jerkily, expecting another assault from behind. Maya was crying, clinging to her mother’s swollen belly.
“Billie?” Robin gasped, wincing in discomfort.
“I’m here,” Billie said. She didn’t like the strain on the woman’s face. “Are you okay?”
Robin struggled to get off her knees, sliding into the pew with her hand over her belly. “Something isn’t right.”
Noah clutched his wife’s knee. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Robin said. “I think we should go to the hospital.”
He shook his head, refusing to believe. “You’re not due for another month.”
Oh Jesus, Billie thought. Robin wasn’t about to go into labour, was she? She crept forward slowly, afraid to make any sudden movements. No idea where the ghost was now. “Wait. It’s just gonna follow you if you go to the hospital.”
“Haven’t you done enough?” Noah hissed, the panic doubling down in his eyes.
“Listen to me,” Billie said. “The ghost wasn’t haunting your house. It’s haunting you.”
“Don’t listen to her!” railed the Reverend, rising to his feet. “The witch lies.”
Her patience popped like a balloon. Billie turned on the man in black. “Would you shut up! There is no witch! There is no devil here! There’s just a child and she scared and confused and angry!”
“Maya?” Robin said, confused.
The Reverend was not a man used to being scolded. Especially by a woman, witch or no. He charged at Billie, snatching the collar of the her coat. “Haven’t you done enough damage? Get out! GET OUT!”
He was a big man, strong. The young woman a featherweight as he hauled her to the door. Billie, kicking and punching to get free. Neither the preacher nor the gypsy saw the smoldering shadow blocking their path.
