Hungry Ghosts

by Stephen Blackmoore

“Almost did,” I say, stepping into the foyer. Lucy’s ghost is just outside my consciousness. A building pressure behind my eyes.

  “That’s uncharacteristically honest of you,” she says. She closes the door and leads me into the kitchen. The house has been furnished. To sell it, she told me over the phone. If I’d been much longer chances are I’d have had to break my way in.

  The image of her in Canter’s Deli the night my parents died flashes in front of my eyes.

  “I’m a changed man.”

  “I can tell. You’re not looking so green. So it went well?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but I’m … cured I guess is the word.”

  “And Tabitha?”

  “I don’t know.” I’ve been thinking about telling her what happened—she was Tabitha’s friend, after all. At least until she learned she was involved with Santa Muerte. But I decided that would be a bad idea. After today I don’t expect we’ll see each other again.

  That’s how it should be.

  “You still have the ring,” she says. “Does that mean this isn’t over?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  She looks out the window into the alley, avoiding my eyes. “Where’s the Cadillac?” Lots of questions. I can’t tell if it’s small talk or delaying tactic, and I don’t suppose it matters.

  “Broke down pretty much the minute I got back into town. I’ve got it in the shop. Going to cost a fortune to get some of the wards redone. I took a bus.”

  “A bus? You know they have this thing called Uber, right? Or taxicabs?”

  The last time I was in a cab I found out the driver was a serial killer whose last victim’s ghost was haunting the back seat. I killed the driver in the Santa Monica mountains and hid his car in a ditch.

  “I don’t really like cabs. Is that it?” She’s holding the manila folder with a grip tight enough to leave dents.

  “Yeah.” She looks at it, then up at me. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes. Are you sure you want me to? It is mine to deal with.”

  She hesitates. Finally hands me the folder. I get the reluctance. It’s Vivian’s final tie to my sister. Once she passes this on there’s nothing left but her memories and grief.

  The folder is surprisingly heavy, and when I open it I can see why. Aside from being stuffed full of paperwork there are several sheets of paper with keys taped to them and addresses neatly typed next to each. House keys, safe deposit keys, padlock keys. A couple of them don’t just have addresses, but sigils next to them.

  “Some of these are warded?” I ask.

  “Couple storage units. A safe deposit box,” she says. “Lucy could never get in. They responded to her but she didn’t have the power to unlock them. Alex and I both tried, but they wouldn’t budge. Maybe you can.”

  It sounds like something our parents would do. Lock some secrets up that only family can crack. Probably did it before Lucy was born, or they would have made it so she could get in, too. Must have driven her crazy.

  I’m not surprised my parents never told me about these. A secretive bunch, us Carters.

  “How many properties are in here?” There’s a lot of paperwork. I actually own a house in upstate New York under a fake name. Haven’t seen it in about six years, but I don’t remember there being this much paperwork. I see my signature forged across everything in Vivian’s neat, tight script. Not sure how I feel about having my real name on official documents.

  “Lucy’s house. Your parents’ property in the hills. A couple others scattered around L.A. I haven’t seen all of them, but Lucy had someone check a couple years ago. They were all empty.”

  It’s a lot to take in and I’m not going to get through it all standing here. I close the folder.

  “Do I need to sign anything?”

  “It’s handled. Keys, paperwork. Property taxes are paid up through next year out of your trust fund.”

  “My what?”

  “Your trust fund. The money your parents left you? It was merged with Lucy’s. Paid the taxes out of it. You did know you inherited money from them, right?”

  “I do now.” I had no idea. She doesn’t look surprised.

  “Well, details are all in there. I know money isn’t something we worry about, but it’s there if you get sick of magicking ATM machines.”

  “Thanks for this. And for everything you did for Lucy. I’m sorry things went the way they did.”

  I know that’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got.

  “I’m thinking of leaving L.A.,” she says, not looking at me.

  I thought as much. With Alex gone and this last piece of business to complete, there’s not much reason for her to stay. “Good. This is a shitty town. I hope things go better for you wherever you end up.” I don’t ask her where she’s planning to go. I shouldn’t know.

  “Thanks,” she says, surprise clear on her face. “I’m not sure when. Might be a while. I’m still trying to figure some things out. But I thought you should know.” Translation: “I figured I shouldn’t be as big a prick as you were and just up and disappear.” Fair enough.

  “That’s it, I guess,” she says. “You have the paperwork, you have the keys. Oh, there’s a lawyer’s card in there, too. You’re going to want to talk to him if you have any questions.”

  “Cool. Lawyer. Got it.”

  She steps forward uncertainly, arms out, steps back. I do the same. It’s the Hug Don’t Hug dance. We settle on shaking hands and I walk her to the door. I stand there until she gets into her car and pulls into the alley.

  It’s a weird feeling watching her drive away. The last time it was me who was leaving. I left in the middle of the night without saying goodbye. She’s classy enough to tell me, though god knows I don’t deserve it.

  I really am sorry things went the way they did between us. But it was over a long time ago. It’s just taken me this long to let it go. I take a deep breath and close the door. It’s time I let go of something else, too.

  I head into the living room, sit cross-legged on the floor, open my messenger bag. I start to pull out the things I’ll need, salt, a bundle of sage, a jar of red pepper flakes, sulfur. I stop when I find the Lotería cards.

  I’ve been through this bag a hundred times since I left Mictlan. I know for a fact that these cards weren’t in there. LA MUERTE, LA CORONA, EL VALIENTE, EL ALACRÁN, and finally EL CORAZÓN. The five cards Tabitha drew for me from her deck in Tepito.

  I can think of a connection to each one of those cards. Some more literally than others. I look at EL CORAZÓN, the Heart. “No me extrañes corazón, que regreso en el camión,” is printed beneath the image of a heart surrounded by the same wedding band I’m wearing, calaveras carved along the side and everything. It’s not an image I’ve seen before, and it’s very clearly specific to me. But I don’t know what it means.

  “Do not miss me, sweetheart, I’ll be back by bus,” I say, translating the phrase. “Well, goddamn.” She even predicted the Caddy breaking down.

  I stack the cards neatly into a pile and slide them into my coat pocket. I’ll puzzle these out later. I have more important things to do right now.

  I pour the salt and red pepper flakes into a wide circle, light the sage and put it out to let the pungent smoke fill the room. I can feel Lucy’s Echo become sharper in the background. I have its attention, or as near to that as you can get with a mindless projection of someone’s final moments.

  I sit in the middle of the circle, and pull out my straight razor and a small, silver dish. I cut myself on my left forearm, blood dripping into the dish. I focus my magic on the blood like I’ve done a thousand times before. Shape the magic with my will, tie it into knots, let it flow out of me like water.

  And say goodbye to my sister.

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