"I never meant to hurt you," Manning blurted out, leaning back in his chair, feeling weak, finally having the opportunity to say what had been on his mind for twenty years. "I didn't know what to do...you were sick and I couldn't take care of you and..."
Uncle Steve nodded. "I was pretty out there," he agreed. "I was having a hard time remembering stuff. I knew something was wrong, but I wouldn't admit it."
With those words, Manning could feel the weight of his guilt start to subside; it was still painful, but it was a good pain, the kind that brought relief.
"When I saw you in the hospital I just didn't know what to do. You needed care that I couldn't give you...I did what I thought was right."
His uncle stared at him, the ghost's eyes seeming to look into his soul. "I know you did, Tommy. I understand all that, I really do--but what happened to us?"
The ghost leaned forward in the chair. "I thought we were pals--buddies. Where'd you go, Tommy? I missed you something fierce."
Uncle Steve grew still, staring off into space. Manning could practically see the past reflected in the surface of his ghostly eyeglasses.
"All those summers," Steve said, the slight hint of a smile creeping across his face. "Not sure if you knew how much those meant to me."
Manning remembered how important those summers had once been to him: the night before the drive up to Lynn from the South Shore, not being able to sleep, filled with the excitement over what the next two weeks would be like. He remembered all of Uncle Steve's books and magazines, that musty smell of old paper and the mental list he would make of what he wanted to read first.
Manning smiled. Even now there was nothing he enjoyed more than spending a day off in a secondhand bookstore, perusing the stacks, the smells taking him back to those wonderful summers.
"I really didn't know what to do with myself once you stopped coming," Uncle Steve continued. "There was always next year, I used to say, but you didn't visit then, either. What happened, Tommy? What did I do to make you stop visiting me?"
Manning didn't want to hurt his uncle's feelings, but there really wasn't much wiggle room, and besides, this was all about coming clean--about giving up the guilt.
"I was growing up, Uncle Steve," he explained, as softly as he was able. "I had new friends, there were girls that--"
"Figures," Steve scoffed. "The broads always ruin a good thing." He held a hand up to his mouth conspiratorially. "But don't tell Sally I said that." The ghost chuckled.
"It wasn't just that," Manning continued. "It was summer vacation and the prospect of hanging around with you reading about haunted houses and alien abductions just didn't have the same appeal to a teenager."
"You must've thought your uncle Steve was a real kook," the ghost said with a grin. "Didn't ya? C'mon, you can tell me."
Manning returned the smile. "And there was that."
Steve laughed, looking around the office. "Not so crazy now, am I, Mister Field Director for the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense?"
"I guess you weren't as crazy as I thought," Manning echoed, and his smile broadened. It felt surprisingly good.
"All my books and journals; I miss that stuff. Worst thing about being dead, I think."
Manning flashed back to the days after his uncle's passing, standing in the apartment that the old man had lived in the majority of his adult life, filled nearly to bursting with books, magazines and notebooks, and wondering what to do with it all.
"You know, I kept it all," Manning said.
"You're joking, right?" the ghost asked. "You kept all my stuff?"
Manning nodded. "It's all back at the house. I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. I went so far as to call a service to have it hauled off, but..." he shook his head. "I just couldn't bring myself to do it. It would've been like disappointing you all over again."
"You never disappointed me, Tommy," Uncle Steve told him. "Deep down I realized you had to have your own life. It was hard, but you never really disappointed me. I always knew you were gonna be something special."
There was still a piece of the guilt that had not been expunged, in Tom's chest, dug in deep, its roots leading straight to his heart. He had to be free of it, had to confess it all.
"You died alone," he said, feeling his eyes burn with tears of sadness, tears that he'd never allowed before. "I wasn't there...I should have been there."
The ghost of his uncle Steve reached across the top of his desk, placing his nearly transparent hand atop Manning's own. It was freezing cold yet strangely comforting.
"Let it go," his uncle said. "I was half out of my mind anyway, I probably wouldn't have known even if you were there."
Manning felt the last of his regret begin to dissolve, breaking up, the painful tightness in his chest, there since first reading the message left by his uncle, starting to loosen. He had yearned all these years for a forgiveness he did not think he deserved and was certain he would never receive. Yet here it was.
What a gift.
"And here I was thinking that you'd come to haunt me."
Uncle Steve scoffed. "Got better things to do with my time, Tommy Terrific."
Manning smiled. It was a nickname his uncle had used for him as a child now and again, something from the old Captain Kangaroo kids' show on TV.
The ghost drifted up and floated across the office. "It's good we got this stuff out of the way, but I know you got important things to do," he said just before passing through the door. "Saving the world and all."
The specter of his uncle laughed, and Manning grinned. That laugh had always made him happy, been one of the things that he had looked forward to all through the school year. For a moment, just for a moment, he was back there again.
It was just like summer vacation.
Chapter 10
A bsolom saw the design in his mind, and began to build it upon the floor of Mary Hudnell's opulent bedroom.
He could feel his god's impatience radiating from inside the old woman as she lay upon the hospital bed, propped up with multiple pillows. Mary watched him, her breathing labored. He moved as fast as his mind and hands would allow.
The Electricizers had scoured the house for parts, bringing electrical appliances to him from wherever they could be found. Unable to carry the washing machine up the stairs, Arden and Wickham had dismantled it in the basement, carrying its motor up into the room. Parts from a grandfather clock, microwave oven, and a portable television from the guest room down the hall soon followed, and the vision of the device inside his brain, gradually became a reality.
"I found this in the attic!" Annabel exclaimed in her high, squeaky child's voice, as she stumbled into the bedroom, carrying an old windup phonograph. Its large external horn resembled a tarnished metallic flower.
"Help her!" Absolom commanded, and Wickham and Arden rushed to the little girl's assistance.
"I remember when Father purchased that phonograph," Mary said wistfully from her bed. "The cold winter months we spent listening to music, dancing until my legs ached; seeing it brings back some of my fondest memories."
They placed the phonograph carefully down in front of their leader.
"And from this relic of the past, we shall bring forth the future--and new memories of a world transformed shall be forged."
"Bravo, Absolom," Mary cried, clapping her ancient hands together softly. "Bravo."
And the others joined in the applause, urging him on to finish his work. It wouldn't be long now, he imagined, carefully removing the horn from the phonograph. The finishing touches were all that remained, and his hands moved from one tool to the next, joining the scavenged pieces of old technology together to create something entirely new.
Their god wanted to address them all--his followers, his priests--and with this contrivance his voice would be heard. The screwdriver dropped from Absolom's hand. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, from the act of creation. The communication machine was completed, and all he could do was stare at it, marveling a
t what his mind and hands had wrought. He had no idea how or why the machine would work, only that it would.
Absolom picked up the electrical cord and, without looking, held it out toward the closest disciple.
"Plug this into the nearest outlet," he said breathlessly, eager to test his work.
A crackling sigh was heard from the electronic voice box attached to the throat of Silas Udell's canine body.
"I...I can't," the dog said, a pathetic sadness pouring from the speaker in waves. "I have no hands."
"I'm sorry, Silas," Absolom said, holding the plug out to Wickham. "Geoffrey, if you would be so kind?"
Wickham approached, taking the cord from him and searching for an outlet.
"If I had hands, I could be of more use," Udell continued, his tail wagging nervously. "Could...could you build me hands?"
Absolom's eyes roamed about the communication machine, making certain that all the connections were in place before the power was switched on.
"You will not be in that form forever," he said, dismissing the dog's request. "There's no reason to invest time in the fabrication of hands for you if..."
"But what if I want to stay like this?"
"Stay like that?" Stunned, Absolom looked into the dark eyes of the animal. "You must be joking."
Udell shook his blocky head from side to side. "Not at all," his voice crackled from the speaker in his throat. "I've never felt so free before--so in touch with myself--my senses so alive. For the first time I feel as though I truly know myself."
Absolom could not quite grasp what he was hearing. The man he remembered had not merely been a spiritual medium but a drunken womanizer, chased from at least three states by constabulary alerted by complaints of enraged husbands.
"All that I'm missing is the use of hands," the dog explained, lifting one of his paws. "These are next to useless, but if you could cobble together something with fingers--and opposable thumbs--I would forever be in your debt."
He continued staring at the dog, not sure exactly how to answer, when out of the corner of his eye he saw Mary writhing uncomfortably.
The god was anxious, eager to share with them his words of wisdom, and Absolom had made him wait.
"This is not the time or place for this," he told his canine disciple, picking up the machine and placing it upon the wheeled cart that had once held an EKG machine. He guided it closer to Mary's bed. "When things are as they should be, we'll talk."
"About hands?" the dog asked hopefully, tongue lolling pink and wet.
"About many things," he said, turning his full attention to the Madonna reclined upon the bed.
"I'm so sorry," he told her, reaching out to pat her brow. "Your discomfort is a result of my distraction, and I beg your forgiveness."
"It...it feels as though...he's quite...excited," she grunted, hands gripping the sides of the bed in extreme discomfort.
"Impatient is more like it," Absolom said as he pulled the sheet and blanket down past her legs. "Eager to be heard."
He then politely asked her to expose the bare flesh of her stomach. Mary obliged, while he attached multiple sticky electrodes to the taut, papery skin of the old woman's abdomen. He glanced up to double-check if the machine had been plugged in before flipping the switch to activate it.
The Electricizers stood frozen--waiting.
The washing machine motor rumbled to life. A piercing wail, projected through the phonograph horn, filled the room. Absolom recoiled, his hands going to his ears. All of the Electricizers reacted the same except Udell, who had no hands and simply howled in discomfort.
The screeching sound gradually diminished to be replaced by a sound similar to that of a heartbeat. Absolom went to the machine, adjusting the controls.
"Can you hear me, my master?" he asked, leaning over to speak into the mouth of the horn.
The beating sound increased in pace, and then a voice began to speak, amplified by the horn. "I hear you," the voice hissed above the rhythmic thrumming.
Absolom felt as though he might cry, but managed to retain his composure.
"After so long, we are at last reunited," he said. "And can continue with our plans first set in motion over a hundred years ago."
The high-pitched whine returned and Absolom fidgeted with the controls, attempting to eliminate the annoying feedback.
"My patience grows short," their god growled. "Too long have I waited, prisoner within this slowly decaying bag of skin."
Absolom was taken aback by the harshness of Qemu'el's words, and chanced a look toward Mary. He saw that she was crying, the deity's words cutting her to the quick. He immediately spoke up, attempting to appease the agitated godling.
"And the plans for your imminent birth are proceeding..."
"Not. Fast. Enough." Qemu'el bellowed, causing the metal horn to vibrate violently. "There are forces in this world--forces with the power to challenge my return. Are you aware of this?"
The image of Hellboy and a horde of BPRD agents filled his mind, and Absolom Spearz shuddered with the thought.
"Yes, I'm aware, oh lord." The Archon growled, voice rising from the phonograph horn. "I sense them out there--a possible impediment to my return. We must move, and move quickly, before they can be made aware."
Absolom recalled how the acquisition of one of the objects of power had nearly been prevented, and shuddered. How much does the BPRD know? he wondered, deciding not to share his concerns with the angry god. There was no need to upset him further.
"And move we shall," he said. "The last of the objects of power needed for your birth have been located, and the fates have smiled upon us, for they are all in one location."
"This pleases me," the Archon rumbled. "And when will these relics be acquired? How much longer will I be forced to wait?"
"I will disperse a team at once," he explained calmly. "And while the objects are being obtained, the preparation for your arrival will begin here."
"Excellent," Qemu'el praised him. "And then it will begin, the end of all things."
A chill of foreboding crept up Absolom's spine as the god spoke the last of his words before going silent. The end of all things, Absolom thought, troubled until the god's words made sense to him. For any new beginning, there must first be an ending--an ending of all things.
That was it, of course.
What else could he have possibly meant?
Franklin Massie was feeling no pain. It was a dream come true, and he owed his good fortune, and health, to Absolom Spearz.
The funeral director sat behind the wheel of a hearse in the parking lot of Boston's City Morgue. He had been there for the last two hours--since receiving the phone call from Absolom, giving him instructions for his latest assignment. This was a big one, a huge responsibility, but it was the least he could do for all that had been done for him. Spearz had taken away his pain, made him a new man. Massie would have moved the world for him.
The man reached down, feeling the slight bulge of the apparatus that was attached to his chest. Staccato images flashed before him, causing his eyes to flicker in the darkness of the transport vehicle. He remembered the pain of old age, the arthritis that had caused his bones to creak and taken away his ability to move, to truly live.
Then he remembered the procedure he'd had to endure for this new life. There had been pain then as well, more pain than he would care to remember, but it had all been worth it.
Massie remembered the smell of blood, and the sounds of machinery as his body was prepared to accept Absolom Spearz's gift. He wasn't sure exactly, but he thought that he actually might have died upon the worktable in the cold, damp basement of the house not far from the entrance to Lynn Woods Reservation. He shivered with the memory of a cold saw blade biting into the trembling flesh of his chest, cutting through to the bone, before everything had gone black.
Massie pulled open the front of his white button-down shirt to admire the mechanism bolted there. He stroked the metal box with his fingertips, feeling
the thrum of its power source from within.
What had Absolom said, after Massie had awakened to find the machine screwed to his chest and grafted to his nervous system?
It's powered by the nearly unlimited energy provided by the spirits of the dead, the man had answered. They're all around us, you know, ripe for the picking.
Franklin Massie had never believed in ghosts, but now he had no choice. They were what kept him alive. He laughed at the notion of the dead allowing him to feel this wonderful. After all the years of catering to them, they were at last doing something for him.
Who'd ever have believed it?
He pulled up the sleeve of his dark suit jacket to glance at his watch. Now was as good a time as any, he thought, stepping from the car out into the cold, early morning. It was after midnight, when there was the least chance for any interruption of his task. He had been here at this time before, and the place was dead quiet. Massie smirked at his unintentional pun, slamming the driver's side door of the hearse and approaching the brick building.
He rang the buzzer, wondering who would be on call tonight, and was pleased to see the disheveled form of Adam Sanders strolling down the corridor, paperback novel in hand. Massie could see the man squinting, trying to figure out who was buzzing, and he waved, peering in through the small window in the door.
"Hey, Mr. Massie," the morgue tech said as he pushed open the door to allow him access. "I didn't expect to see you tonight," he said, stifling a yawn.
"Busy night?" Massie asked with a sly smile.
"Got paperwork backed up my ass, but I can't find the energy to do it. Who are you here for?"
"I believe the name is Dollings," he said, reaching inside his suit coat pocket, pretending to search for a piece of paper where the name had been written.
"Dollings? The name's not ringing a bell, but let's go take a look out back."
They walked down the cool, cinder-block corridor toward the main storage room.
"Who's working security tonight?" Massie asked, knowing that the lab technicians were never in the building alone.
"Some guy named Davis," Sanders said, opening the door into the morgue room. "I think he went out to get cigarettes or something."
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