Every Mountain Made Low

by Alex White

  She loaded her cart and made for Vulcan’s Bazaar. It was slow going, and the further she got from her home, the more she felt bile rising in her stomach. She had to take regular breaks, and she sensed everyone’s eyes upon her. They knew something was wrong with her – that she didn’t belong. She kept her head down and dragged onward. She reached the thin spot in the Bazaar and crossed without incident. No ghosts harrowed her passage.

  Loxley reached her usual place and spread out her blanket. She didn’t have a cash box, but she could make do with her pockets. Trading bells would ring soon, and she settled into her corner, starting to feel a little familiarity return. Officer Crutchfield marching for her at full speed threw all of that to the wind.

  He seemed uglier than the last time she saw him. A rosy tint had washed his face, making his white hair that much brighter.

  “Ma’am, you’re going to have to move that,” he called when he was about fifteen paces away. Loxley had never heard him take that tone of voice before, low and authoritative, devoid of any invitation. “You can’t set up here.”

  “Officer Crutchfield, I’m just doing what I always –”

  When he reached her, he took her behind the elbow and led her to her cart where her empty baskets lay. “All right, lady, let’s pack it up. Come on. Let’s go.”

  His touch offended her senses. She tried to jerk away, but he wouldn’t let go. “Officer, I –”

  “I don’t care, miss. You can set up on the Bazaar like everyone else, but you can’t set up here.”

  “But I always set up here.”

  He let go and took a step back. “Miss, you’ve got thirty seconds to move that stall into the legal zone. You going to do that?”

  Her stomach burned. She wanted to scream at him, to hit him or to argue with him eloquently, but the words wouldn’t come. She realized her hands were flapping, and she stopped herself, folding them in front of her and locking her fingers together. Her breath hissed through her teeth, and she focused on trying to speak.

  He regarded her coolly, looking down his nose. He licked the inside of his cheek, and she remembered the taste of his spit with a shudder. She saw a knife, a gun and a nightstick. He’d never seemed so well-armed before.

  “Well?” he said. “How does it feel to be treated just like everyone else? Not too good, is it?” He crossed his arms. “You had a big old hoot with me on account of your condition, but I think it’s high time someone taught you what real life is like.”

  “Y-you,” she paused, ashamed of her stutter. “You’re mad at me.”

  “I ain’t mad, Loxley. I ain’t anything with you. We’re done.”

  “You just wanted to put your fingers in me!” she screeched at him, much to the surprise of the bystanders.

  “That’s it, woman. You’re fucking insane.”

  “You tried to hurt me!”

  Officer Crutchfield glanced around. “Bullshit, Loxley. Now you need to keep your voice down or there are going to be consequences.”

  “Liar!”

  “Goddamn it. I told you to quiet down.” He put a hand on his pistol grip. “Miss Fiddleback, I’m seizing your cart for a city ordinance violation – soliciting in prohibited areas. All of the personal effects on the cart are now property of the municipality and will be auctioned off on the first of the month.”

  “You can’t do that. You’re the one who tried to hurt me.”

  “I can and I did. Now one more word and I’ll arrest you for disturbing the peace.”

  If Nora had been there, she would have said something to change his mind. She could have made him understand how wrong he’d been, but Loxley didn’t know how to talk to the policeman. She was so angry, but she could not craft that anger into anything of use.

  He stood stock still, looking at her with his watery eyes and slightly pudgy, red face. He sniffed and scratched his nose with his glove, his other hand never leaving his weapon. He licked his lips and shifted from side to side. “Well? Don’t feel like going to jail today?”

  Loxley ran her fingers across the bulge of cash in one pocket and the knife in the other. She turned and began to walk away.

  “Smart girl,” he called after her.

  “You’re a bad person,” she called back, before hurrying away.

  Normal people would have cried at what he’d done, but she didn’t. She’d cried the first time she lost the cart, but losing it again had been somehow expected. This foreign place grated on her nerves, and it seemed only obvious that she would begin to lose things that she found precious here. Yesterday, she’d lived in a self-contained place, fragile but nourishing in the most basic ways. Today, that was all gone, and she had begun to wither.

  She heard trading bells ring from the Bazaar. It was too early to go to Fowler’s by a few hours. The last time she’d showed up early, Don had told her she was looking for handouts and that she should work harder during the hours she normally worked. If she went there now, he might say that, or something worse: try to make her stop gardening like he had yesterday. She remembered the pay cut. Now she’d lost her place in the Bazaar, too.

  She came to the corner where she normally turned to head up to the sixth ring and stopped. Fowler’s was a few miles away, but it would not take her long to get there. She couldn’t go home, though. She never went home. She worked for Don every day because he worked every day, and that was the way of things. Even when she got sick, she would come to work and he would make her sit in the back.

  The foreign feeling of her world intensified as she took a step toward her house. She was doing something wrong, taking a step like that. The bell diver reeled out her hose a little further. She began to trudge home, one foot at a time.

  When she got to Nora’s block, there was no sign of the ghost. Loxley could see the top of Magic City Heights, and she knew her bed waited for her. She imagined stripping down and wrapping her old, fuzzy blanket around herself. When she awoke, maybe she would appear in her own bed, in her own time – or she might awaken yet another world away.

  She remembered how far she’d seen the ghost travel last night; Nora’s corpse must have been in her apartment. Loxley peered around for the spirit. Had they moved the body? The ghost should have been waiting for her here. After all, the dead had nothing better to do. If someone had moved the body, Loxley might never find out what happened.

  A ball of anger formed in her stomach at that thought. People disappeared in the Hole all the time. Nora would be one of the uncounted: a poor woman. People scarcely gave a damn about anyone, much less some nobody from the seventh ring. If Loxley didn’t go looking for the truth, no one would.

  She could go home and sleep until it was time to go to Fowler’s, or she could see to her friend’s corpse.

  “Nora,” she whispered.

  The endless drone of the Foundry replied, but nothing else. Loxley’s eyes darted about the shadows and her legs tensed, ready to fly at the first sign of trouble. She felt a little stupid, calling out to the ghost, but she wanted to know where it was.

  “Nora,” she said, a little louder.

  She wilted inside and knew its eyes were upon her. She blinked, and it appeared a few yards away. Its knuckles popped as it flexed its fingers, and it ground its teeth together, its dead face burning with the desire to touch her. It raised its arms like a mother waiting for a child to run to it.

  “Be calm, Loxa-lox,” she said, a half tuned note falling from her throat as she exhaled. She clasped her hands together. Loxley shifted from foot to foot, considering what she was about to do.

  Nora sunk down, regarding her curiously. For a ghost, it seemed awfully smart. Loxley had never found one so expressive, but it made sense because Nora was better than other people. Nora, who loved her; Nora, who treated her like no one else. Loxley waited for it to speak, hoping against the odds that it might actually be different than other ghosts, but that seemed a fool idea.

  “I liked it when you hugged me, you know,” said Loxley, swallowing. “I
wish it had been you to kiss me, instead of that dumb Officer Crutchfield. I wanted you to kiss... I – I just wanted...” She spoke without comprehending, but her voice broke when she realized what she was saying. She searched its body, looking for some of the comfort she’d once found in its living arms, but its pallid, mottled skin was foreign to her now. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you. I’m not even supposed to be walking around here. This place isn’t mine.”

  It straightened up. Did it understand her?

  Her cheeks grew wet with tears. “I’m going to come find you... and I’m going to call some different policemen and we’re going to put you to rest. So...” She stomped the crawlies off her legs, opening and closing her mouth as she tried to figure out what to say next. Her throat hurt so much from holding back the flood of sobs. “So don’t kill me, okay? I loved you. Don’t kill... Don – D...” She got stuck on the consonant and shook her head.

  Remember, ghosts can see you breathing, baby. If you ever get caught by one, you’ve got to hold your breath.

  Loxley took a deep breath and held it. Nora’s gaze snapped about as the thing descended into a state of near panic. It scraped its hands across its filthy clothes and beat its sides with shaking fists. It crept closer to where Loxley stood, but it dared not venture too far from its body. Loxley took ten steps to the left and let out her breath. Nora looked at her straightaway.

  Loxley couldn’t trust the police to do this job, not without some help. She had to find the body on her own; had to see it for herself. There was no one left who loved her. The cops threw paupers into the Founder’s Fire when they died. Loxley couldn’t let that happen to her friend without knowing what had happened.

  “Okay.” She sucked in a breath and made a break for Nora’s building.

  Loxley raced past the ghost without so much as a scratch from its wanting fingers. Her feet slapped the ground, and her lungs began to burn. She didn’t look back. She wouldn’t stop until she was in the lobby of Nora’s apartment complex. The corner seemed so far away, and she willed it to be closer. Ten paces... five paces... She whipped around the side of the building and through the front door before the air came blasting out of her lips.

  She was a fit woman from all her gardening, but she was no athlete. She doubled over, heaving, as spittle burst from her lips. A sudden nausea overcame her, and she ripped off her coat. It wasn’t the run; it was the presence of Nora’s ghost. This spirit really was different. She could feel its essence like a lighthouse, warning her away. It bled into her, biting electricity on exposed bone. Loxley stumbled to a wall, her exhalations catching in her throat. Her ears rang, and the pain nearly brought her to her knees.

  Static crept at the corners of her mind. She shook it off as best she could and regained her bearings. Nora lived on the tenth floor. If the ghost could feel her as acutely as she felt it, she would never make it to the body. She glanced around for the spirit.

  It stood just outside, watching her through the windows. She blinked, and it vanished.

  Loxley yelped, tripping over her own legs as she scampered away. She hit her face on the tile, and lights exploded behind her eyes. With no time to lose, she took a breath and held it. She rolled onto her back and saw Nora, splayed across the ceiling: motionless, frigid eyes fixed on nothing. It lay there, hair stuck to the water-stained tiles against gravity’s will, demonstrating its final state. Its corpse lips rested half-open, and Loxley could see a light misting of black blood on them.

  It was trying to tell her something. It had to be. She struggled to her feet and bounded to the stairwell door. She managed to make it up one flight of stairs before taking a breath. Spots shimmered in her vision. A wave of dizziness passed through her, and she caught onto the railing for support. From the next landing, a little girl laughed at her. Loxley glared, and the child retreated into the second floor, slamming the stairwell door.

  Loxley didn’t know if spirits could hear, but she doubted it. Nora had been slow to appear in the lobby, and it hadn’t moved to block the stairwell when Loxley had dashed into it. It wasn’t a matter of speed, either. Ghosts didn’t need to walk; they appeared without warning. Loxley took the stairs two at a time. She made it to the next landing before she had to exhale again.

  Feverish goosebumps raised across Loxley’s body, and Alvin Kimball’s handprint stung like a hot brand. She had to lose Nora now, before she got too high into the building. There was another stairwell on the far side of the complex. If Loxley could reach it, perhaps the spirit would haunt the more obvious path. If she fainted and the ghost found her, she was as good as dead. She took another breath and threw open the door to the second floor. She sealed herself on the other side and allowed herself to breathe normally. The kid had run back to her apartment – good.

  Loxley sprinted down the long hallway to the other side, then stopped at the far door. Her pulse throbbed where she’d hit her face, and she huffed, glancing back the way she’d come. No Nora, even though Loxley still felt the sickly influence of the corpse flowing into her. Without holding her breath, however, it was easier to overcome those effects.

  She stood up straight and touched her forehead. She’d split her skin on the tile, and her hand came back with blood. She wiped it across the front of her coveralls, the useless weight of the pruning knife rippling under the denim. No amount of violence could help her here. She sighed and pushed open the door to the second set of stairs. She poked her head out, and finding no sign of her pursuer, she began to climb.

  She took the stairs slowly, stopping often to check her surroundings. She could not afford to be tired if the spirit got the drop on her. With each floor, the miasma of the corpse became less bearable. Nora hadn’t been much older than eighteen, in the prime of her life and beautiful. She’d laughed easily, with a luminous smile and infectious energy. Loxley had never sensed the ghost of such a vibrant person, and it made her teeth ache.

  She reached the tenth floor and grasped the door handle with trembling hands. She held her breath and turned. A dim hallway stretched before her, fluorescent tubes blinking, sickly and sad, in the ceiling. No people, and no ghost. Loxley stepped inside. She crept past a dozen or so doors before coming to ten-fourteen.

  The door lay partially open, a sliver of light peeking out past the frame. She placed a hand against it, trying to sense what lay on the other side. Her bruises lit up, and she grunted, unable to keep her breath. Ants raced up and down the backs of her knees as she pushed.

  Loxley would only remember a few flashes from this place: a cut metal chain, dangling from the doorframe; the bright, naked bulb of a lamp laying on the floor behind a ratty sofa; the way the shadow draped across Nora’s body like a black cloak. The smell of urine and excrement.

  A set of curled fingertips jutted out of the gloom, and Loxley could not stop the gentle humming in her throat. She reached down and picked up the lamp, holding it aloft to better see past the couch. Nora’s body lay before her, twisted in the agony of her last moments. Matted hair, flecked with blood, bone and brain, shimmered in the light. Her shirt collar was torn where someone had grabbed her.

  She dropped the light. Bile and breakfast rushed into Loxley’s mouth, and she emptied her stomach into a nearby trashcan. She fell to her hands and knees, unable to move without gagging harder. She wished she hadn’t eaten this morning. When her guts had nothing left, she heaved over and over again. Her belly subsided, and she pushed the can away, resting her forehead on the floor.

  She needed to get up, find what she wanted, and get out of there.

  Loxley inched closer to the body. She’d grown used to feeling a warmth in Nora’s presence. As she wrapped her fingers around the corpse’s shoulder, she experienced the bitter cold of dead flesh. When Loxley’s mother had died, she’d touched the body once, then never again, because people should not be that cold. In her world, people did not feel like that. She wanted to leave and forget about the whole thing. Instead, she shoved her friend’s body over, its hand flop
ping limply to the side.

  A gunshot hole graced Nora’s brow, fractured and tattered around the edges. One of the dead woman’s eyes had drifted lazily left, while the other had remained fixed. Its lips, once pretty, seemed waxy now, guarding a dry mouth. A nasty bruise had spread across the body’s cheek, struck with burst blood vessels like tiny lightning bolts.

  A tear spattered Nora’s face, and Loxley blinked hard as her vision blurred. She leaned over the corpse’s chest and buried her head into its cold embrace. She grabbed handfuls of the dead woman’s clothing and pressed them to her eyes, fighting the oncoming rush of sobs to maintain control.

  “You’re not supposed to be dead,” she mumbled into the folds of fabric. “It should be me. You’re so bright and pretty. I’m worthless.”

  What had she hoped to accomplish, coming here? What had she hoped to find? She’d said she would call the cops, but who would show up? Men like Crutchfield? They couldn’t be trusted, and they wouldn’t help. That left her on her own. How would she ever find the person who’d killed Nora, and what would she do when she did?

  She balled her fists tighter, pressing Nora’s clothes to her eyes until she saw stars. “Please get up. I want to go home.”

  She sat back on her haunches, sighed and opened her eyes. The ghost stood over her.

  “No!” she screamed, as the spirit swiped across her face. Its hand passed through her, curdling her blood and twisting her with agony. The world spun, roaring with static. Loxley tried to take a breath, but the ghost grabbed her shoulder, forcing air from her as surely as an electric shock. Her skin cracked and sprayed blood under its touch, and over the pain, she felt a warm wetness under her shirt. She turned to run, but it seized her ankle, which folded up in an excruciating seizure, sending Loxley careening headfirst into the door frame. She struck her temple against the metal and rolled to the ground, dazed.