The Tehama and others

by Bob Leman

  "Well!" Meg Hathorne said. "Well, well. A ghost. A ghost, no less. And who might you be?"

  There was a pause. Then a voice came, a hoarse, hollow, slow voice, deep but attenuated and substanceless, as of a great bellow conveyed across an enormous distance by faulty equipment. "Edna — Watkins," the voice said. "I — am — Edna — Watkins. Find — my — body. Give — me — proper — burial."

  Meg Hathorne stared for a moment, and then burst out laughing. "Oh, come off it," she said. "You’re not talking to a civilian now. What's your name, and how did you get trapped like this?"

  When the voice came again it was considerably quicker and clearer. "If you know that much, you know I'm not going to tell you my name. Who are you?"

  "Oh, I work for the same firm you do," she said. "I'm in good standing, too, which I imagine is more than you can say. It looks to me as if you're in real trouble, my friend. It's a pretty stupid move, you know, getting trapped in a body when it dies. Interesting, though. I never saw a ghost before. Never expected to see one, to tell the truth. I thought you fellows had smartened up and learned how to avoid that kind of thing. What happened?"

  "The usual," the ghost said. "I was caught by surprise. Who'd have expected that little mouse of a man to be so quick with his shovel? I'd crept up behind him and said something I thought might frighten him into a heart attack, and zip — there I was in a dead body. What do you want?"

  The question meant, "What payment will persuade you to help me?" There was, of course, no possibility that she would lend any aid for reasons of goodwill or shared interests or even to curry favor with their master. In the universe of these creatures an act of disinterested charity was the equivalent of mortal sin in a human context. She said, "Why, nothing that I can think of. Maybe I'll just keep you around for company. I don't have much opportunity for conversation about business matters. Can you make interesting conversation?"

  "Conversation?" the ghost said. "Yes, we can have conversation. But there is something you will have to do first. The man threw a... token into the grave. It is a very strong restraint. Even the effort of coming this far, of holding a form and talking to you here, causes me awful pain. If you will just remove that thing, we will be able to talk all you like."

  The witch grinned. "We'll have to think about that, won't we? I know what you're up to. Right now you're pretty closely confined to these premises, but if I take away the restraint — what is it, a cross? — it won't be as painful for you to wander farther afield, and sooner or later you might find someone who's not too scared to listen to you and get the message about where the body's buried. And when they rebury it, you'll be free. Is that about right?"

  "Of course," the ghost said. "That's always been the way. But you know as well as I do that it almost always takes a long time. Centuries or millennia. But you can hasten things for me. Just tell the authorities you found a body under your house. The rest will be routine. What do you want in exchange?"

  "I said I'd have to think about it. Go back, now. Get out!" the witch said. The ghost disappeared.

  For some time she sat motionless. Then she rose and viciously kicked the creature that lay at her feet. It squalled in perfect imitation of a hurt and startled cat.

  "Oh, shut up!" the witch said. "I need to talk to Ashkob. Can you get him?"

  "That hurt," the creature said. "It hurt quite a lot. You know I'm keeping a list, don't you? Someday... Yes. I'll see if I can reach him."

  It became as still as a china cat on a mantel. After a time it said, "What is it now, Meg? I've got more important things to do than wipe your nose for you, you know." It was speaking in a different voice, a voice not unlike the one the ghost had first used.

  The witch went white with rage at the words. "You like taking chances, don't you, Ashkob?" she said in a furious cold voice. "I advise you to be careful about what you say. Any more disrespect and I'll call you up here in person and hurt you a little. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, mistress." The voice had taken on a grudgingly servile intonation.

  "All right," she said. "Now listen to me. There is a colleague of yours here, bound as a ghost in this house. I want you to get me his name."

  From the cat-creature's mouth came a coarse, loud laugh. "Somebody got himself trapped, did he? Haw, haw, haw. And now he's a lousy ghost. Worst existence there is. Awful. Not to speak of what'll happen to him when the chief gets hold of him again. Haw, haw, haw."

  The witch grinned in spite of herself. The suffering of others was to these creatures the deepest and most satisfying of pleasures, and indeed the creation of such suffering was their profession. Their pleasure was in no way diminished by the fact that the trapped demon was one of their own. The demon Ashkob in fact found extra satisfaction in the circumstance.

  Ashkob was a very minor functionary in the underworld; his occupation, that of servant and slave to mortals who had made a pact with his master, placed him very near the bottom of Hell's caste system. It is in such an entity that the demoniac characteristic of envy reaches its fullest flower; with almost the entire working population of Hell in position above him, he had an almost infinite number of beings to envy. Demons whose work is the possession of human beings are of a considerably higher social rank than Ashkob and his kind, and Ashkob was deeply grateful for the discomfiture of this one. "Hang on, Meg," he said. "I'll be back. Haw, haw, haw."

  Time is a concept that does not apply in Hell's plane of reality, and although to Meg Hathome no more than thirty seconds elapsed before Ashkob spoke again, he had in fact spent the equivalent of forty years in research to obtain the information she wanted, and the trace of good humor caused by the other demon's discomfiture had long since disappeared. "The name's Gnulcibber," he said, "And you'd better watch out how you use it. It's not the kind of information you're supposed to have. You overstep yourself just once and we'll have you down here in a flash." Apparently the idea cheered him a little. "And now that you've got it, what are you going to do with it? That kind is pretty tough, you know. Not like me. One slip and he'll have you." He seemed to find the thought pleasant. "Gobble you up,” he said. "Haw, haw, haw."

  "I know what I'm doing," the witch said. "That'll be all for you, for the time being. I'll call you if I need you."

  The cat-creature relaxed suddenly, and began to wash its face in a very natural manner. Meg Hathorne took up one of the books on the table, searched for and found the page she required, and began to read aloud in a harsh, clangorous, gutteral language. The words, in translation, were: "I call thee by name, Gnulcibber; I adjure and command thee to appear now before me in docile mien and behavior, Gnulcibber, and to obey me in all things, or suffer the punishment thou knowest I can lay upon thee. Come now, Gnulcibber!"

  Against the wall, in the spot where it had first appeared, the ghost began to take shape. Meg Hathorne said, "You don't have to do that. Show yourself."

  "You are an ignorant woman," the ghost said. "It is a great misfortune that you should have this power over me. I cannot abandon this ghost-form until I am released permanently, unless a much greater power than you commands it. It is a thing you might have been thought to know, since you have this dominance. How did you learn my name?"

  "Never mind about that," Meg Hathome said. "Now listen to me. I am going to command your services for as long as I live in this house, and I would rather not have to concern myself about attention being attracted to the house or to me. I propose an agreement. If you will convenant not to try to expose the location of the grave for so long as I am in occupancy, I will see to it that you are released when I move on. But understand me, Gnulcibber: if I have any problems with you, I'll fix that grave so it will never be found. Now. Do you accept?"

  "I don't have much choice, do I?" Gnulcibber said.

  "All right," said Meg Hathorne. "Now the first thing I want you to do is to put the fear around the house. Not strong enough to excite any comment, just enough to keep people off the grounds. I don't want any thieves break
ing in or bums sleeping under the porch or kids peeking through windows. Just lay it on strong enough so anybody uninvited will think about changing his mind by the time he reaches the boundary."

  "It's done,” Gnulcibber said.

  There was a sudden susurration audible through the house, the rustle of a host of tiny feet, a multitude of faint squeals and chitters and buzzings. The fear had struck into the dark and secret places within the walls and floors, and out of them, deserting the house in incontinent flight, came all the little decent vermin who dwelt there, the timid gentle mice and small harmless serpents and cleanly insects. There were others who did not flee because they did not feel the fear, who went about their business as usual: the rats and carrion insects, the spiders and venomous reptiles. These were altogether at home in the house of a witch, and what had terrified the others was comforting to them.

  Fred Watkins was not comforted. He was gripped by the fear, twisted and wrung by it, reduced to a lump of pure terror. He was, of course, very close to the center, the source. He was squatting at the base of an old blue spruce tree whose lowest branches, those that grew close to the ground, had been trimmed off long ago, so that the branching now began at a height of four feet or so. The branches that grew at that level were long and drooping, and their extremities brushed the ground, so that around the trunk a low, circular cavern was formed. Anyone hiding there was undetectable even in daylight, and Watkins in his boyhood had spent a considerable part of each summer under the tree, in peaceful retreat from the real world.

  Now it was his nighttime observation post. Watching the house had become the center of his life, an obsession that excluded almost every other concern. He had gradually come to a conviction that it was an absolute necessity that he know instantly when the bodies were discovered. Then he would make his escape. He supposed. He had not, in fact, formed any plans. The effort seemed somehow excessive. It was simpler to have a drink and postpone the planning until another day. And it was, after all, about as much as could be expected of any man, this responsibility for keeping a house under round-the-clock observation (except for a few grudged hours of sleep) while at the same time suffering all the terrors of discovery and disgrace. Who could be blamed for having recourse to the bottle under the circumstances?

  Alcohol had come late to Watkins's life, but it came at an opportune time, and he found it to be a welcome friend. He had money now, and no need or desire to work, and he had an obsession grounded in a deep and abiding fear. He was pleased with his discovery that doses of bourbon whiskey dulled and blurred his awareness of the calamity that lay in wait, and he dosed freely. It was, consequently, a partially anesthetized and comparatively reasonable man who crouched under the blue spruce tree and kept fanatical watch that night.

  Until the fear struck; then there was no anesthesia, no barrier. There was only abject, sniveling, paralyzing terror. He sucked greedily at the bottle, swallowing until his stomach rebelled. He grimly fought down the nausea and drank again. The whiskey would help. It had to help.

  In the house the witch said to the ghost, "All right, back to your hole. I'll call you when I need you."

  "I must tell you," the ghost said, "that there is a—"

  "Silence!" the witch shouted. "You will speak when you are spoken to, and not before. Go!"

  "On you be it, then," the ghost said. "I have spoken." It disappeared.

  It did not, however, return to the grave; instead, it manifested itself near Watkins's tree. At the same time, in a small area around the tree, it nullified the pall of fear.

  The awful terror was lifted suddenly from Watkins, and the excessive helping of whiskey he had just taken made itself felt, so that he was able to look with a measure of calmness at the thing before him, realizing, even as he did so, that it would ineluctably return to him in nightmares. It was Edna, that was certain, Edna standing mute and pale in the moonlight, Edna with no top to her head, standing — standing! with no top to her... no top... It was too much, even with the whiskey. He opened his mouth to scream.

  The jaw of the thing moved. It said, authoritatively, "Remain silent, Watkins."

  He choked back the scream. He shook his head violently. After several false starts he said, in a voice that was theatrically calm, "But you're dead, Edna."

  "Of course I am," the ghost said. "I'm a ghost."

  "Yes, of course," Watkins said. "You're a ghost. That's what you are. A ghost. You're—"

  "Stop jabbering," the ghost said. Its jaw moved, but with a sort of mechanical regularity, the movement in no way synchronized with the words it spoke. Watkins clapped his hand over his mouth. It was the only way the babbling could be stopped. And unless it were stopped, it would very quickly degenerate into mindless howling. No question about that.

  "Now listen, Watkins," the ghost said. "I'm going to tell you how to get your house back, so you can watch it and make sure the grave isn't discovered. That's what you want, isn't it?"

  "Oh, yes," Watkins said. "Oh, yes. Yes."

  "All right," the ghost said. "Listen hard. Understand me. Tomorrow night she'll be in a trance all night, talking with other witches. We'll have plenty of time to talk, and we won't have to fear that she'll hear us. Come after sundown. Bring some paper to write on, and a light of some kind. She'll not see it. Do you understand me? Writing material and a light. And no drink. Have you grasped this?"

  "Yes, ghost," Watkins said. He lied. But he did remember it all the next day, and he thought about it, and was unable to decide whether it had been real or a hallucination. "You can have your house back," the ghost had said. If it had been real — if he had in fact seen Edna's ghost, and it had said the things he remembered — then there was really no choice. He had to try it.

  ***

  And so the next evening, not long after sunset, he was back under the tree, with a pad of paper and a ballpoint and a camper’s flashlight in a canvas carryall. The bottle was there, too, but unopened. The fear still lay over the premises, and it had been an act of real courage for him to force his way through it to the haven under the tree. There the ghost had thoughtfully allowed the nullification to remain in effect, and Watkins was in dread only to the degree that may be considered natural in a man who believes that he will probably very soon be confronted by a truly horrible apparition.

  He was quite right; the ghost manifested itself almost immediately. It spoke in its grating monotone: "Write this down, Watkins. It is a recipe for a love charm."

  "A love charm?"

  "You will prepare it and anoint yourself with it. It will give you a certain power over the witch."

  "Oh, no," Watkins said. "No, sir. No way. You think I'm going to mess around with her?"

  "Hear me, Watkins. This is what you will do. You will anoint yourself and go openly to her. Her body is young, and your aneling will affect her strongly. She will not, you must understand, lose control of herself, and she will remain very dangerous to you. But she will be off guard, especially since she believes you to be totally harmless. Hit her on the head with a club. Once she is unconscious I will give you further instructions. I will be there."

  "Hit — I can't do that. Hit somebody over the head with a club. No."

  "You can and you will, if you want your house back," the ghost said. "Now write."

  He wrote. He did want his house back. The voice grated on and on, dictating a long list of loathsome ingredients and minutely describing a complex and repulsive method of preparation. At last the ghost said, "All right, Watkins. That is all of it. Prepare it."

  Watkins crept from his den and returned home and read what he had written. It was an enormously disgusting business. He concluded that he had to try it.

  Thus an evening came when Watkins, neatly dressed, cold-sober, and stinking abominably of the grease he had prepared and smeared upon himself, presented himself at the front door of the house and rang the bell. He waited for a few minutes, and, when the door did not open, turned away with a feeling of great relief. She wasn't a
t home. He'd have to come back another day.

  Behind him the door opened. "Why, it's Mr. Watkins," Meg Hathorne said. "What do you want, Mr. Watkins?" Her voice was not friendly.

  Watkins whirled to face her. "I— need—to—talk—to—you," he said.

  "Indeed," she said. "What about, I wonder. Well, come in, Mr. Watkins."

  Watkins entered. As she closed the door she caught a whiff of his unguent. An expression of interest came into her face. She said, "Now, Mr. Watkins, what do you want?" Her voice had softened considerably.

  "I—have—something—to—show —you," said Watkins, reeling off another memorized line.

  "Why don't you come back to my study?" she said. "We can talk better there." She led Watkins along the filthy corridor, brushing aside cobwebs in grotesque mimicry of a fussy housewife. As she entered the doorway of her den, Watkins struck.

  His club was an eighteen-inch length of baseball bat, and his arm was strengthened by sheer terror; the club met her head with a decisive crunch. She fell instantly, seeming to collapse vertically upon herself, like a dropped empty sack. Watkins stood with the club in his hand, not moving, totally incapable of even attempting to think what his next step should be, and suddenly the ghost, in all its transcendent nastiness, was there beside him.

  "Good, Watkins, good!" it said. "Drag her in here. Lay her out. Put the crucifix on her chest. Quickly, now."

  "Crucifix?" Watkins could manage no more than a whisper. "What crucifix?"

  "The one I told you to bring."

  "You didn't tell me to bring a crucifix." '

  "You slime, of course I told you to you are right. I did not. I have already too long been a ghost. I no longer think properly. But we must have a crucifix. The one in the grave. You must get it. Quickly!"