by Trisha Telep
They think I’m drunk, he thought dismally. Or crazy. Or both.
Most of the glass cuts on his chest and back had been shallow enough to not warrant stitches, but Margot sutured those that needed them, and dressed the others with small squares of white cotton gauze and paper tape. He’d been surprised that she hadn’t offered to realign his chakra, manipulate his aura or do any of the other mystical bullshit he’d heard she was into in rumors from his fellow residents.
“Dr Howard said to sit tight for a while. He’s going to order you a CT scan,” Margot said as she turned to leave the curtained bay.
“I don’t need a CT scan,” Jack growled, even though again, he would have made the same call had he not been the patient.
“He wants to admit you.” She paused, looking back at him. “At least for overnight observation.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” With a grimace, Jack eased himself off the examination table and reached for his shirt, shrugging it back over his shoulders. “Really. So if you could just ask Pete to sign that discharge form, I’ll be on my way.”
She studied him dubiously and turned again to leave.
“Margot, wait. Can I . . . ask you something?”
She stopped again, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Sure, Dr Harris.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked, the words rushing out of him before he could stop them.
Margot looked at him for a moment, her expression cool, but otherwise unreadable. “Why do you ask?”
“I . . . I don’t . . .” he began. Then, sighing heavily, he shook his head. “Never mind.”
Still standing at the edge of the drapes that marked the boundary of the examination alcove, she tucked his chart beneath her arm. “I know what people think of me around here. What they say.”
“What? I . . . I don’t . . .” he stammered, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. “I mean, I’ve never . . .”
She smiled, but her eyes were sharp, stern and piercing. “I’ve seen more things in my nursing career than most of you residents probably have in your entire lives. Enough to convince me there’s more at work in this universe than can be explained away by science. If you want to make fun of that, it’s your business. I don’t care.”
“I’m not making fun of you,” he said, pleading. “It’s just . . .”
His voice trailed off, and a heavy silence hung between them. He didn’t want to talk to her about this; didn’t want to talk to anyone, because it sounded so damn crazy. But all at once, he held out some inkling of hope that Margot might believe him, might know what was happening. Because she was there, he thought. In the ER, when they brought Laura in. She saw her. She saw what happened.
He looked at her for a long moment, his head hurting. “I need your help,” he whispered. “Please.”
Jack had been cleared to leave the hospital over Pete’s strenuous objections – as both his friend and attending physician – that Jack, had their roles been reversed, would have echoed. He’d gone home and had set about taping plastic garbage bags up in the ruined frames of his shattered windows. He’d need to call his landlord in the morning, because an insurance claim would have to be filed, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what in the hell he’d offer by way of plausible explanation.
Margot had promised to come by after her shift ended. He’d finished all but one of the windows by the time she made it – nearly midnight – but hadn’t even touched the mess of broken glass and strewn debris littering the floor.
Her large eyes looked all the wider as she stepped lightly, cautiously through the glass. “All of this happened in a matter of minutes, you said?”
He nodded. “Five or less.” With a bitter laugh, he added, “And you should see what’s left of my car.”
Can someone haunt you if they’re not even dead? He’d asked Margot this in the hospital, and then told her everything that had happened. Or almost everything. He hadn’t mentioned the fact that he and Laura had been making love like a pair of jackrabbits in heat – there were some things so crazy, he doubted even Margot would believe them.
“It sounds like poltergeist activity,” Margot remarked, surveying the damage.
“What?”
“A poltergeist. Some believe they’re invisible spirits that cause damage and destruction like this. They’re like supernatural practical jokers.”
Har-de-fucking-har-har, Jack thought. Some joke. “Spirits,” he repeated, and she nodded. “So Laura’s a ghost, then?”
“Yes and no,” Margot said. “Many religions hold that you don’t have to be dead in order for your spirit to leave your body and manifest itself. Laura flatlined in the ER last night. It’s possible that her spirit left her body, but couldn’t find its way back once you saved her. Now she’s trapped in a limbo of some sort, her physical form comatose, her spirit unable to return.”
“Why not?” Jack asked. The entire line of conversation was ridiculous to him; a part of him wanted to throw up his hands and simultaneously laugh and burst into exhausted, bewildered tears. Had he not been standing in the shambled midst of what had once been his living room, surrounded by broken glass, he might have felt more strongly inclined.
“I don’t know.” Margot looked thoughtful. “But some para-psychologists think poltergeist phenomena is actually spontaneous manifestations of psychokinetic powers.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means Laura could be doing this,” she said. “Or it could be something else, something that’s following her, another spirit of some sort. You told me you saw something attack your car?”
He nodded. “A woman. At least, it sort of looked like a woman. With wings.”
“It could have been an angel,” Margot remarked thoughtfully.
I’m not so sure about that, Jack thought, recalling the momentary but horrifying glimpse of the shrieking, furious creature’s face. “Whatever it is, how can I get rid of it? How do I stop this?” With his hands, he motioned desperately to his ruined home.
“I don’t know,” Margot admitted. “But if you have a computer I can use, I might be able to figure something out.”
He didn’t mean to doze off, not with his house still in shambles, and Margot at the breakfast bar with his laptop open in front of her. As she’d searched the internet, he’d started a fire in the fireplace, stacking wood haphazardly and pushing against the kindling with the tapered point of a cast-iron poker. He’d only meant to sit down for a moment, because his body was aching, his back and shoulders stiff and sore from his impact with the airbag. The moment he reclined on the sofa, however, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, letting the warmth radiating from the hearth wash over him, he was out like a light. The next thing he knew, Margot’s voice, low and close by, startled him awake.
“What?” Eyes flying wide, he sat up, blinking stupidly at her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, leaning down into his line of sight. “I hate to wake you up, but . . .”
“No, it’s all right.” He shook his head and shoved his hair back, wincing as he stumbled to his feet. “Did you find something?”
“I think so.”
With a yawn, he followed her back to the computer. She’d left it open, the screen alight, and he was surprised to see an illustration posted to the browser window – one that looked eerily familiar. It showed a pale woman with sharp teeth, clawlike talons instead of hands and feet, and batlike wings sprouting from her shoulders.
“What the hell is that?” he asked.
“It’s called a Ker,” Margot said. With a pointed glance at him, she added, “I think it’s what attacked your car tonight. They’re sort of like the vultures of the underworld in ancient Greek mythology. They rip the souls of the newly dead from their bodies and drag them off to the afterlife.”
Jack grimaced. “Lovely.”
“Their job was very specific,” Margot continued. “They
could only claim the souls of those killed violently, like in battle. In a lot of ways, they’re similar to Norse Valkyries, except they weren’t portrayed as beautiful or noble. Instead, they were pretty terrifying.”
Jack leaned closer to the computer, studying the image onscreen. “You said they only want souls if someone dies violently? What about in a car crash?”
“That seems like a pretty violent way to go to me,” Margot admitted. “Laura wasn’t dead for long. Maybe only time enough for something like this to grab her spirit, try to drag it to the underworld. Only you resuscitated her body, brought her back to life. From what I’ve read, a Ker is pretty vicious. She’d feel cheated out of her prize – Laura’s soul. And she’d try her best to keep it.”
“Is that why Laura’s haunting me?” he asked. “Or whatever she’s doing. Why she keeps finding me?”
“She knows who you are,” Margot told him pointedly. “She must feel safe with you. From her perspective, you beat the Ker once when you saved her life.”
“Yeah, but how do I stop it now? If this thing is, in fact, one of those . . . a Ker, did you call it? How do we get rid of it so Laura’s spirit can go back to her body?”
“I don’t know,” she said. He stared at her stricken. “I couldn’t find anything online that could tell me how to stop one of the Ker. The closest I found was . . . here.” Brushing past him, she reached for the computer and scrolled down past the illustration. “According to Greek poems, no one mortal can escape them because we can’t avoid death for ever. But here, listen: ‘a Ker has yet no absolute power over the life of men, and even mortals may for a time prevent their attaining their object, or delay it by fighting them or fleeing’.”
“Fight them with what?” Jack asked.
Margot shrugged. “The ancient Greeks probably would have used a sword.”
“Terrific,” Jack said. “Just what everyone has lying around the house.”
“Look, you’re exhausted,” Margot said. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? I’ll run home and check in a couple of other sources, come back first thing in the morning and we can go from there.”
He started to argue, and then cut himself short. The truth was, she was right. He was exhausted. His nap on the sofa, however brief, had been dreamless and deep, and his mind and body ached at the sudden temptation of resuming it.
Margot shrugged her purse over her shoulder. “Will you be all right? It’s cold in here. You could come back to my house. I’ve got an extra bedroom.”
Jack shook his head. “I think I’ll be OK. I’ll just camp out here in front of the fireplace. Thanks, though.” When she nodded once, then turned for the door, he added, “For everything. For believing me.”
She smiled, letting herself out. “You’re welcome.”
Jack collapsed onto the couch and dragged a blanket over himself. The pervasive chill outside had seeped through the trash bags covering his windows and, although he faced the fireplace and his front half was toasty, his back remained cold.
I don’t care, he thought. He’d tossed back a couple of extra-strength Tylenols and now closed his eyes, burrowed beneath the covers, letting his mind re-submerge into the comforting abyss of sleep.
The sound of Laura’s soft, sob-choked gasps ripped him abruptly awake again. His eyes flew open and he jerked in surprise to find her kneeling directly in front of him, less than a foot away from his face.
“Jesus!” he gasped, sitting up with a start.
“She’s after me,” Laura pleaded, looking up at him, her eyes ringed with heavy shadows, her cheeks glistening with tears. Her hair was tangled, with brambles and leaves caught in the disheveled locks. There was dirt on her face, mud splattered and dried on her dress and legs, and something else – something that looked suspiciously like blood.
“What happened?” Jack asked, reaching for her. She crumpled into his arms, shuddering against the shelter of his chest, and he saw a ragged series of scratches, long and deep, gouged into her back. “Laura, who did this to you?”
“The woman in the woods,” she whimpered. “She’s out there, Jack. She was right behind me.”
As if on cue, from somewhere outside, beyond the patio, they heard a sudden screech, animal-like and shrill.
“Oh God!” With a frightened cry, Laura cowered against him.
“It’s all right.” Taking her face between his hands, Jack forced her to look at him. “I won’t let her hurt you again. I promise, Laura.”
Her eyes widened in alarm as he rose to his feet. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be right back,” he called as he hurried to his bedroom. “I’m going to get something from upstairs.”
Squatting beside his headboard, he reached behind it, fingers fumbling, until he found the shaft of a Louisville Slugger he kept tucked there for security. Old enough to be an antique, its black varnish worn down to reveal the pale wood beneath in places, it would still pack a pretty decent punch if swung hard enough.
As he pulled the bat out, he felt the floorboards suddenly thrum beneath his feet. From his bedside table, a loose scattering of change began to jingle disharmonically, the coins bouncing together then dropping to the floor. From his bureau, a framed photograph of his parents began to skitter back and forth, the glass cracking loudly as it pitched to the floor. All around him, things began to vibrate and move – rumpled piles of clothes he’d yet to return to his closet, books and papers, discarded socks and shoes.
Laura could be doing this, Margot had told him – what she’d called “poltergeist” activity. Or it could be something else, something that’s following her, another spirit of some sort.
“Damn,” he whispered, turning toward the stairs. From the first floor, he heard the sudden sound of plastic and duct tape ripping loose as someone – or something – burst through one of the broken windows on the first floor. Laura gave a piteous, terrified shriek that was immediately drowned out by another one, even louder.
The Ker.
He raced down to the living room, his heart jackhammering. He could hear the leathery flapping of the creature’s wings and the crashes and clatter as it plowed past, knocking over anything and everything in its path.
“Jack!” Laura screamed as he rushed into the room. She’d pressed herself beside the creek-stone hearth, cowering on her knees, her arms thrown up to protect her face. Above her, hovering in mid-air, was the Ker. At Laura’s cry, it whipped around to face him, and Jack skittered to a shocked, uncertain halt, the baseball bat drooping impotently in his hand.
Beneath the shocking white of her translucent skin, the Ker’s nude form was strapped with muscles, the bony prominences in her collar, hips, shoulders and spine all apparent. Her fingers and toes were elongated, the tips capped with wickedly hooked claws. Her hair, a sickly, nearly jaundiced shade of blonde, framed her gaunt face in a wild, untamed mess. Her eyes, deeply sunken and red-rimmed, were black and featureless, like a shark’s; her mouth was likewise predatory, filled with crooked fangs.
“Shit,” he whispered. Then the Ker was on him, arcing her wings and diving directly at his face, her hands outstretched, her mouth open wide as she screeched.
Backpedaling in alarm, Jack reacted on panicked reflex, grasping the Louisville Slugger in both hands, and then swinging it sharply. The broad end connected solidly with the side of the Ker’s skull as she swooped in attack. With a caw, she careened sideways, smashed into the wall and hit the floor.
Dancing back, Jack had less than a second to admire his handiwork before she was up again, moving impossibly fast, plowing into him headlong. Thrown off his feet, he toppled backwards, cracking the back of his head against the floor. The baseball bat was the only barrier between him and the Ker as she landed atop him, straddling him, and when she reared back, then lunged forward, those hideous teeth snapping at his face, he managed to push the bat higher, blocking her.
“Get off me,” he yelled as her fangs sank into the wood; like a terrier on a ham bone, she sho
ok her head furiously. Bucking his hips, he managed to force her off balance and twisted the bat loose.
“I said get off!” Jack smashed the bat’s flared pommel into the monster’s cheek, sending her sprawling sideways.
He stumbled to his feet and turned to Laura. “Run!” he shouted. That had been one of the solutions Margot had mentioned; something from an old Greek poem that said mortals could flee from a Ker. “Run into the woods. I’ll hold her—”
His voice cut breathlessly short as the Ker attacked again, lungeing at him from behind and reaching over his shoulders to grab either end of the bat. She jerked against it hard, slamming him backwards into her, catching him brutally beneath the shelf of his chin with the ash shaft of the bat. She abruptly flew toward the ceiling again, dragging him with her, choking the breath from him. His feet pedaled in the open air and he gagged, pinned to her chest. He could hear her laughter, scraping and shrill, and, below him, saw Laura staring up, her face twisted with horror.
“Jack!” she screamed.
He couldn’t breathe. Strangling, straining, his line of sight grew murky as his oxygen-starved consciousness waned. With all of the strength he could muster, he wedged his fingers between his throat and the bat. It wasn’t much, but it gave him just enough room that his head slipped down through the narrow margin of space. With nothing left restraining him, Jack fell to the floor, landing hard against the coffee table, splintering it beneath him.
He felt Laura’s hands against his shoulders, clutching at him, shaking him. With a groan, he tried to sit up.
“Come on,” Laura pleaded, hooking an arm around him, supporting his weight as he stumbled to his feet. “Jack, please. We have to get out of here.”
“No.” Jack shook his head.
“But . . . but you said to run,” she sputtered, wide-eyed and bewildered.
