by Anton Strout
Irene floated along with an unnatural, ghostly grace. But she took care to avoid tables, chairs, and other people as if she were still alive. We moved like a procession of geriatric zombies. I smirked at the image it conjured in my head. If she had been a zombie, at least she’d be something I had read up on in the departmental pamphlet Shufflers & Shamblers.
Her body flickered as if she had a loose bulb inside her.
“You okay, Irene?” I asked.
“I think so,” she said. Her voice came out as if she were off in a faraway dream. “Just troubled a bit. I want to follow your friend here, but…I’m not sure why. Strange.” She tried to move her head to look at me, but her eyes couldn’t turn away from Connor. “It’s that intoxicating scent, isn’t it?”
I stopped. Surely this was coercion at it basest level. “Connor…”
My partner stopped and turned.
“Kid, it’s okay,” Connor said in an effort to soothe both of us. “Nothing’s going to happen to her.”
As we passed through the black velvet curtains at the back of the shop, Irene gasped. The ordinary confines of the coffeehouse gave way to a majestic, old movie theater that embodied days of glory gone by. In the soft glow of the movie’s projector, I could make out the muted gold leaf fleur-de-lis hidden on the wall amid the decorative architecture. I was especially taken with the ornate chandelier that glittered in the darkness high overhead. What stories it would tell if I ever got my psychometric mitts on it.
We headed down the right-hand aisle. The theater was enchanting, but not in a paranormal way. It always gave me the impression that something magical would happen if only I were to fall back into one of the red velvety cushions of the Lovecraft’s hundred seats. But that was the point of old theaters—to weave a spell, preparing a journey beyond these four walls. Up on the screen, Clark Gable was noisily chomping a carrot as he sat on a fence talking to Claudette Colbert.
Irene craned her head about the theater. She was taken in by the majesty of it all. At the end of the aisle, Connor stopped opposite a large wooden door marked H.P. and produced a ring of keys. He sorted out a plastic keycard and waved it in front of an electronic plate to the door’s left. The latch clicked softly and Connor pushed the door open, gesturing for Irene to enter.
“Welcome to the world of weird,” Connor said.
6
Holding the door for a woman who could just as easily walk through it was a nice touch on Connor’s part. With five years on the job, Connor did have many of the finer points down when it came to helping the deceased cross over. Keeping me alive on a daily basis? That was a different matter.
He waited for Irene to pass through the doorway before he spoke.
“The dead have heap-big issues,” he told me in the worst Native American accent he could muster. He was a movie buff and always doing accents or impressions. Almost all of them were impossible to figure out. In his regular voice, he continued, “Sometimes the simple gestures we associate with being human can get an investigator through even the most difficult of spirit-handling situations. Think of the soul as shell-shocked when it’s torn from the world of the living. Spirits who can’t get past that tend to linger with the confusion of it all. That’s when it can grow restless and a haunting might commence. I’ll get reports from family members who say that they’ve started seeing dead ole’ Uncle Lou sitting on the can in the upstairs bathroom. Stuff like that.”
Although I had hoped to catch up on the paperwork threatening to take over my desk, Irene had suddenly become our “heap-big” issue du jour—which meant that I would have to table two zombie infestations and an investigation of a Shambler sighting. The Department of Extraordinary Affairs was probably going to be a big shock to Irene, and that would pretty much fill up a good part of our workday.
Irene looked overwhelmed by the change of pace from the mesmerizing tranquility of the theater to the red-tape office environment that spread out before her. Dozens of desks, cubicles, and a throng of pencil pushers cluttered the busy aisles of our unlikeliest of office spaces. The stucco walls gave the lengthy main room a warm, golden glow, reminiscent of California’s grand hotels from the early days of Hollywood. Irene spotted the only significant difference between those hotels and our main office at the D.E.A.—an assortment of arcane symbols carved deeply into a vast portion of the wall.
“What on earth are those?” Irene asked. Her eyes were wide with wonder, everything remaining of her humanity exaggerated to cartoonish proportions.
“Standard ritualistic markings, ma’am,” Connor said politely as he led her down the main aisle. “‘All operations involving the use or potential use of supernatural powers must be properly warded, glyphed, and otherwise protected by our Division of Greater & Lesser Arcana.’”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what that means,” she muttered absently, too busy drinking in the flurry of activity around her.
“Allow me,” I said. I wasn’t sure how much I was allowed to tell her, but I figured Connor would stop me if I overstepped my bounds.
“This,” I continued, “is the heart of our organization, the Department of Extraordinary Affairs. We’re mostly a hush-hush offshoot of the Mayor’s Office that deals with paranormal matters in the Tri-State Area.” I pointed to an endless row of doors along the far wall. “See those? We’re divided up into several divisions…”
“Too many divisions if you ask me,” Connor added. “Greater and Lesser Arcana, Haunts-General, Things That Go Bump in the Night…the list goes on and on.”
“And which are you?” Irene asked, turning to me.
“Connor and I work for Other Division,” I said, “which basically means we pick up cases that don’t pigeonhole neatly into the rest of the divisions, or that we pick up their slack when the casework builds up. I only know a handful of the divisions by name, but the Enchancellors seem to come up with two or three new ones every time I turn around.”
“What’s an Enchancellor?” Irene asked. She reminded me of a little kid with all her questions, but I realized to an outsider, it must all seem overwhelming.
“They’re like an overseeing committee for the D.E.A. They monitor the whole of what’s going on, assigning new divisions at will while overseeing the rest.”
“Sounds confusing,” she said. I nodded. “So you’re a part of the government then?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “We’re official, but they don’t really acknowledge us.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “Look around you. Are most government offices hidden behind a hipster coffee shop–slash–movie house? Remember that guy on the television before?”
It was Irene’s turn to nod.
“David Davidson. He’s our liaison to the Mayor’s Office. The fact is that the bulk of citizens in Manhattan—and more importantly to him, the registered voters—are simply not ready to cope with the notion that The Big Apple’s government deals in the supernatural. ‘Living Voters are Happy Voters!’ is his motto. Besides, most residents turn a blind eye to it anyway. It’s New York City. Weird shit happens.”
“And people just ignore it?” she said, fascinated.
“Mostly,” I said. “Even though it’s right under their noses. Most occurrences end up being reported in the daily New York rags. Urban Bigfoot in Central Park, alien abductions on the Great Lawn…”
Before I could finish my diatribe on the finer points of half-assed journalism, I sensed watchful eyes upon me. I scanned the room only to find Thaddeus Wesker—Matrixy sunglasses forever hiding his eyes—looking in our general direction while he verbally bitchslapped a team of people from his division.
“So Wesker’s in charge of both Greater and Lesser Arcana now?” I asked.
I knew little about the man except that he was very, very scary. I had heard that he had impressed the Enchancellors by carving the latest batch of arcane runes into the walls by himself. I also knew that he seemed perpetually pissed off. Somehow, he still looked like slickness
personified as he yelled at the elite squad—black hair slicked perfectly straight back and sporting just the right amount of five o’clock shadow at all times.
Irene gave him a quick glance and just as quickly turned away.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“It makes me uncomfortable to look at him,” she said, her voice trembling with weakness.
“Relax,” Connor said. “It’s not you, Irene. Everyone gets the same spooky vibe from him.”
“Makes me wonder exactly how Mr. I-Wear-My-Sunglasses-at-Night got involved with us men in white hats in the first place,” I said.
Connor continued along the main aisle of the cubicle farm, and lowered his voice. “He volunteered to head up the Witchcraft backlog around here, kid, and when they merged departments with Greater Arcana during the City Hall budget crunch last week, he simply stared the other directors down for leadership. And he pulled that trick again over the newly formed Greater and Lesser Arcana that rose from the ashes.”
“Authority through intimidation,” I said. “Nice.”
Irene looked terrified.
“Don’t worry,” Connor offered with reassurance. “I don’t think you’ll have to deal with him.”
I smiled at Irene and stepped closer as we continued walking.
“When I was first training, the big threat for us newbies was that if I didn’t keep on my toes, the teachers would assign me to one of Wesker’s seminars over at Witchcraft.”
“Well, I don’t care for him,” Irene said. “He gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“I said the exact same thing!” I exclaimed.
Connor looked at me with eyebrows raised, but said nothing. He turned and walked on.
The back part of the office was hidden from the front by a ceiling-length dark red curtain that ran from wall to wall. It deadened the sounds of the hectic world of the filers and cube dwellers for the rest of us working behind it. Connor pulled it aside and the three of us passed through the narrow gap into the back office. The atmosphere was more casual back here, but still too waiting-room for my tastes. We headed toward a quiet corner, where several leather couches were surrounded by a glass table that was cluttered with file folders and old coffee mugs. We waited for Irene to take a seat before the two of us sat.
The luck of the draw put Irene directly opposite me again. Now that we were a bit more familiar by a whole ten minutes of talking, I was able to look her in the eyes without shying away like a teen at a high school dance. Strangely, the life that emanated from her had woven its own little spell over me. My eyes fell into hers…for how long, I wasn’t sure. Connor cleared his throat loudly, pulling me out of it. Irene was still looking at me, smiling.
I blushed like a fool in reaction, feeling a strange mix of pride and embarrassment at being the focus of her attention. I looked to Connor for guidance, but he merely shrugged in response. Thanks, pal.
“Irene,” Connor said, clearing his throat once again. “I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which would you prefer to hear first?”
She turned nervously back to me, seeking some kind of guidance, but I remained silent. The debriefing part of dealing with spirits was Connor’s territory and I wasn’t going to overstep my bounds here. In my first four months I had already stepped on enough toes while scrabbling to learn the intricate ropes of paranormal investigation.
“I think I’d like the good news first, please,” Irene said after a brief hesitation. One of her hands moved to cover her mouth as she braced herself. Even the good news might be dreadful.
Connor put on his most chipper voice and said, “The good news that the kid and I have to share with you is this: You have not been relegated to a flaming, fiery hell, complete with pitchforks, demons…the whole works.”
I was sure he hoped his tone would lighten the situation but the panicked look in Irene’s eyes told me that Connor had failed completely. What remaining color there was in Irene’s face drained away. Her body flickered in and out. “If that’s the good news, I don’t know if I’m prepared to hear the bad.”
Connor scratched his temple, searching for the right words. I couldn’t imagine there would ever be a right choice of words in a case like this.
“Well,” he said, opting for unadorned bluntness this time, “let’s put it this way. You’ve recently become less…earthly.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” she asked.
“Meaning…” Connor said, drawing the word out like a sigh. He was buying time, hoping for inspiration to strike. It didn’t. Connor was off his game around her, for reasons I couldn’t quite figure out just yet. “Meaning…you’re dead. You’re what we call ‘the recently living,’ which is the PC term to use these days according to the Mayor’s Office.”
Irene slumped back against the couch, attempting to take in Connor’s sudden, life-changing (or was it death-changing?) statement about her entire worldly existence. I could only imagine what the poor woman was going through. I knew that I wouldn’t take it well if someone walked up to me and cheerily said, “Hello! Sorry to piss in your cornflakes, but you’re dead. Have a nice afterlife.”
Irene sat statue still for the next five minutes. Only the muffled sounds of the office indicated that the world continued on around us. Finally, she leaned across the cluttered table, and beckoned for us to lean in as well.
“I don’t buy it,” she said.
“Don’t buy it?” Connor scoffed. “You don’t have to buy it, Irene! It’s a fact. You ‘buying it’ doesn’t change anything! As a matter of fact, you’ve already ‘bought it,’ if you follow my meaning. Look!”
Connor picked up the folders on the table and, one by one, threw them at her. Well, through her. They vanished into the space her semitransparent body occupied, but I heard them hit the fabric of the couch behind her. Gone was the sensitive Connor who opened doors for the undead—he obviously felt shock tactics were in order to get Irene through her “denial” phase. But it was too much for Irene and her eyes brimmed with tears as she attempted to brush the protruding folders away from her body.
“How is this even possible?” she said as she turned to me.
I looked away, ashamed at Connor’s approach. Maybe I missed the memo declaring Tough Love for all walk-in cases. I brought my eyes back to hers. “I don’t know. But I’m afraid it’s true, Irene. Death comes to all of us.”
“Then why am I here?” she demanded, her voice rising with anger. “Why aren’t I in heaven or hell or whatever there is out there? Why am I sitting in the back of a Village café talking to two strangers about the fact that I’m dead while one of them obnoxiously throws things into me? Shouldn’t that be all she wrote, gentlemen? I mean, I’ve reached the proverbial end of the line, haven’t I? What am I still doing here? ”
“I wish there was an easy explanation I could give you,” Connor said, the frustration melting from his face. “There’s…just…a lot we don’t know yet.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you do know?” she asked with open bitterness.
Connor was trying to keep his own hostility from kicking back in and I hoped he remembered just how traumatic these events were for Irene. But there was still sarcasm in his voice when he spoke. “Well, I can say for certain that you are definitely deceased.”
“Connor,” I pleaded, hoping to soften him. “Come on.”
Why was he being like this? Too many years on the job? Maybe as with all service-oriented jobs, it was easy to lose sight of the fact that we dealt with other humans, touching their lives. Day in and day out, it took an extreme amount of effort to remember how to treat people.
“I apologize,” Connor said, backing down, “but like I said, you’re definitely passed on. I’m not sure how you died, but the kid and I can look into that. Don’t worry if you can’t remember anything right now. It’ll probably come back to you. As far as why you’re still here, well…usually when a spirit lingers, there’s something binding them to the material plane. Unfinished business
of some sort. Nothing mundane, mind you. Nothing like ‘I forgot to turn the stove off.’ More of a vengeance thingie…or perhaps you have an important message to pass on to a loved one. It must be something that your soul found very disquieting when it was forced from your body so unexpectedly.”
“Do you have any loved ones?” I had to ask, even if it sounded like I was suddenly playing The Dating Game. But Irene was too caught up in what Connor was saying.
“And if I figure out why I’m here, then what?” she asked as she flickered in and out with increasing nervousness. One moment she was there, the next she looked like she was being energized by the transporter beam on Star Trek. “Where do I go from here?”
“That’s where it gets a bit sticky,” Connor said. “We’re not quite sure. Clearly the soul is meant to go somewhere, but we earthbound aren’t privy to that. We get stuck with the burden of determining just how these supernatural occurrences happen in the first place and what sort of impact it has on the living. Obviously there’s no known way to explore what lies on the other side without, you know, dying. It could be the soul gets recycled, reincarnated, and you’ll find yourself as a furry lemming headed off the cliffs of Dover in the next life. Conversely, you may go to a heaven of some sort, but whose version of heaven? Is there a pantheon or are we talking monotheistic? In the end, though, there’s no simple way to give you a solid answer.”
“Can’t you research it?” she asked. “Or do something? This is my life here!”
I shook my head.
“There’s way too much paperwork to even set that in motion,” I said. “Our secretly sanctioned agency wouldn’t even know what forms to fill out to investigate what happens in the afterlife. We’re not budgeted for it, either.”
Irene had gone from angered to shocked. “So you’re telling me there’s too much bureaucracy, red tape, and too little funding to give me a definitive answer on my fate?”
